CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(■Monographs) 


ICIVIH 

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microfiches 
(monographles) 


Canadian  institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


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Ce  document  est  filme  au  taux  de  reduction  inJique  ci-dessous. 


lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

7 

12x 


16x 


20x 


24x 


28x 


32x 


The  copy  filmed  here  hes  been  reproduced  thenks 
to  the  generosity  of: 


University  of  Albarta 
Edmonton 

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sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
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first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — »■  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

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right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

4 

5 

"^^^i'^f.^''^^''^^^^ 


L'axemplaira  filmA  fut  reproduit  grice  i  la 
gAnArositA  da: 

University  of  Albarta 
Edmonton 

Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  iti  raprodultas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tenu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  I'axamplaira  film*,  at  »n 
conformity  avac  las  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Las  axamplairas  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  ast  imprimAa  sont  filmis  an  commandant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darniAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'imprassion  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  cas.  Tous  las  autras  axamplairas 
ori'-  naux  sont  filmAs  en  commandant  par  la 
pr«miAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'imprassion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darniAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talla 
amprainta. 

Un  das  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha,  salon  la 
cas:  la  symbola  •-»■  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
symbole  V  signifia  "FIN". 

Las  cartas,  planchas,  tableaux,  ate.  pauvant  dtra 
filmAs  d  das  taux  da  reduction  diff^rants. 
Lorsqua  la  document  ast  trop  grand  pour  dtra 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  filmA  A  partir 
da  Tangle  sup^riaur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaira.  Las  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrant  la  m^thoJa. 


2 

3 

5 

6 

Hffil 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2l 


1.0 


I.I 


I- 


m 

13.2 


2.5 
2.2 

2.0 
1.8 


1.25 


^     APPLIED  IfvMGE     Ir 


'bbi    Last    Urjin    Street 

f^ochesfe--,  New  YorU    14609   u'-A 

(756)  ^82  -   OJOO  -  Phone 

(7'6)  ^88  -  5989  -  Tqk 


ITALIAN    CITIES 

CECIL  FAIRFIELD  LAVELL. 


CHAUTAUQUA 
HOME  READING  SERIES 


\\ 


,„ 


LORENZO   DE'  MEDICI 

P'>rtrait  by  Vasari  Uffizi  riallcTy,  Florence 


Italian  Cities 


DC 


BY 

CECIL  FAIRFIELD  ^AVELL,  M.  A. 

PROFESSOR  OF  HISTORY  IN  BAfES  COLLEGE.  LEWISTON. 
MAINE;  LATE  STAFF  LECTURER  FOR  THE  AMERICAN 
UNIVERSITY  EXTENSION  SOCIETY.  PHILADELPHIA; 
SOMETIME  FELLOW  OF  QUEENS  UNIVERSITY.  KINGS- 
TON. CANADA. 


CHAUTAUQUA,  N.  Y. 

MCMV 


.laaterwr-' 


Copyright,  iqos 

BY 

THE  POPULAR  lOUCATlON  PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 


R.  R 


DONNELLEY   H  SONS  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


^    J) 


CONTENTS 


1 


CHAPTBR 


Preface  ..... 

Introduction  .  .  .  .  . 

I.    From  Naples  to  Pompeii 
II.    Ancient  Rome        ..... 

III.  Assisi  AND  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis 

IV.  Genoa  and  Pisa      .  .  .  .  . 
V.    Siena        ...... 

VI.    Florence:  From  Dante  to  Boccaccio 
VII.    The  Florence  of  the  Medici 
VIII.    Renaissance  Rome  .  .  .  . 

IX.    Venice     ...... 

X.    Milan  ...... 

XI.    From  Turin  to  Rome.    The   Regeneration 
OF  Italy    ...... 

Index       ...... 


PACK 
V 

vii 
I 

17 
38 
57 
75 
92 
"3 
136 

>53 
171 

187 
.tii 


901 


ii^-^mBfBPi 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


I 

f 

1 

i 


FACINO  PAtiK 

Lorenzo  i>e'  Medici.  (Portrait  by  V«  ri,  Uffizi  Gal- 
lery, Florence)       •  -  •  Frontispiece 

Civic  Forum.  Pompeii        -  •  -      ii 

The  Roman  Forum,  Looking  towarl  the  Palatink 
AND  THE  Colosseum     ..... 

St.  Francis  Casting  Forth  the  Devils  from  Arez- 
zo.  (Fresco  by  Giotto  in  Church  of  S.  Francesco, 
Assisi)  ...... 

Detail  from  thk  "Triumph  of  Death."  (Fresco  by 
Andrea  Orcagna  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa)   - 

A  Street  in  Siena,  with  the  Mangia  Towi   ; 

Cloisters  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  Florence 

Angels  in  Paradise,  from  Fra  Angelico's  "Last 
Judgment."    (Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  Florence) 

Lorenzo  de'  Medici  at  the  Age  of  Fifteen.  (De. 
tail  from  Benozzo  Gozzoli's  Fresco  in  the  Riccardi 
Palace,  Florence)  ...... 

The  "Primavera"  of  Botticelli.  (Academy,  Florence) 

"Madonna  of  the  Rose  GarF'SN."  (Filippir  "ippi(?), 
Pitti  Palace,  Florence)      ... 

The  Creation  of  Man.  (Fresco  by  ^'ichelan„o.o,  Ceil- 
ing of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  Rome) - 

The  Madonna  of  tme  Chaki.  (Rap*  •»!,  Pitti  Palace, 
Florence)    -  •  -  .  . 

St.  George  and  the  Dra  \  (Carpaccio,  in  church  of 
S.  Giorgio  Maggiore,  Venice)       .... 

Angel.  (Detail  from  Bellini's  Madonna  and  Saints,  in  the 
Church  of  S.  Zaccaria,  Venice)    -  -  .  . 

Mole  and  Piazzetta,  Venice     .... 

The  Last  Supper  (Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in  old  refectory  of 

S.  Maria  delle  Grazie,  Milan)       -  .  .  -     184 


«g 


54 

72 

76 

104 

106 


"3 
•23 

'23 
142 

M7 
162 

165 
168 


iiiinminfirffnMiiiMrmrTnnr 


'?t''';f1r-J1.-:'M.- 


PREFACE 


This  little  book  is  neither  a  history  of  Italy  nor  a 
record  of  travel.  Tt  is  simply  an  introduction  to  the  study 
of  a  great  people.  Countries  like  England  or  France 
may  doubtless  be  better  approached  in  some  o*  ^^r  way. 
Their  history  is  infinitely  more  unified  and  their  genius 
far  simpler  than  that  of  Italy.  Indeed,  so  far  is  this  true 
that  the  effort  is  seldom  made  to  trace  the  fortunes  and 
the  development  of  the  Italian  people  as  a  whole,  infinite 
t  J  has  been  the  time  and  energy  spent  on  phases  of  that 
development,  ancient  Rome,  the  Empire,  the  Papacy,  the 
Renaissance,  the  modern  movement  for  unification — all 
of  these  have  had  devoted  to  them  a  whole  literature. 
Yet  innumerable  reading  and  thinking  people  who  would 
not  dream  of  suggesting  that  Alfred  the  Great,  John 
V/iclif,  and  Alfred  Tennyson  were  not  all  Englishmen, 
never  realize  that  Julius  Cnesar,  Innocent  III.,  Raphael, 
and  Garibaldi  were  all  Italians.  In  the  one  case  national 
growth  has  been  so  mighty,  so  uninterrupted,  that  all  the 
world  may  see  it.  In  the  other  case  the  genius  of  the 
race  was  thrown  for  centuries  into  directions  other  than 
national  development,  and  missing  the  thread  of  continu- 
ous political  history  we  lose  sight  of  the  real  continuity  of 
race  and  spirit. 

In  these  chapters  the  attempt  is  made  to  introduce  the 
student  to  the  spirit  of  Italy,  past  and  present.  Many 
pages  are,  of  necessity,  simply  descriptive,  for  often  a 
church,  a  picture,  or  a  statue  interprets  the  message  and 


tmtmm 


wmm 


VI 


Preface 


'•^ 


life  of  an  age  as  adequately  as  a  revolution,  a  battle,  or 
even  a  book.  Many  are  directly  historical.  But  whether 
in  history  or  description  the  effort  of  the  writer  through- 
out is  to  prepare  the  reader  for  the  study  of  any  phase  of 
Italian  achievement  that  may  be  undertaken  in  future  w'th 
a  larger  background,  a  truer  understanding  of  the  unity  of 
Italian  history  in  the  broadest  sense. 

My  sole  co-worker  has  been  my  wife,  who  has  shared 
my  Italian  studies  throughout  in  Italy  and  America,  and 
whose  assistance  in  suggestion,  in  criticism,  and  in  the 
actual  preparation  of  the  book  for  the  press  I  wish  warmly 
to  acknowledge.  The  friends  who  first  interested  me  in 
the  art  of  Italy,  Mr.  Edward  Howard  Griggs,  Mr.  Earl 
Barnes,  and  even  more,  Mr.  John  Nolen,  of  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  have  been  too  far  away  for  consultation 
or  direct  aid,  but  I  may  at  least  salute  them  and  very 
heartily  acknowledge  my  debt. 

Cecil  Fairfield  Lavell. 

Lewiston,  Maine,  April  17,  1905. 


■\  . 


'!=:^! 


.1 


INTRODUCTION 

You  are  sitting  on  *he  steps  of  an  old  Greek  temple, 
looking  across  a  little  stretch  of  grass  to  a  still  older  one, 
and  thinking.  Since  that  dawn,  not  many  weeks  ago,  when 
you  saw  from  your  port-hole  a  mountain  rearing  its  dark 
mass  against  the  ruddy  eastern  sky,  and  knew  that  it  was 
Vesuvius,  you  have  been  gaining  your  first  bewildering 
impressions  of  Italy.  Naples,  odorous  and  noisy  per- 
haps, but  charged  with  picturesque  life, — its  bay  and  its 
hill,  and  even  its  streets,  full  of  glorious  color, — has  been 
entirely  the  Italy  of  your  dreams — joyous,  sunny,  and 
quite  uncrushed  by  its  too  obvious  poverty.  At  Baiae 
you  have  had  the  shock  and  thrill  of  your  first  per- 
sonal contact  with  Rome.  And  now  you  have  come  to 
Prestum.  Before  you,  in  a  deserted  field  carpeted  with 
grass  and  lovely  flowers,  stands  a  Doric  temple,  raised  by 
Greeks  in  this  Greater  Greece '  before  the  Parthenon  yet 
crowned  the  Acropolis  of  Athens.  The  bright  stucco 
that  once  covered  the  rough,  reddish  stone  is  quite  gone. 
There  is  no  roof.  Some  of  the  columns  are  broken,  and 
all  are  scarred  by  the  weather  of  twenty-five  centuries. 
There  is  no  bright-colored  frieze,  and  the  lizard  and  the 
barbarian  with  like  freedom  may  pass  where  once  stood 
the  image  of  earth-shaking  Poseidon.  Yet  the  scars 
seem  to  matter  wonderfully  little.  It  is  not  like  an  intri- 
cate piece  of  carving  or  painting,  not  like  Leonardo's 

■Southern  Italy  was  called  in  Roman  times  Magna  Greecia,  Great  or 
Greater  Greece.  The  British  Colonies  have  thus  been  called  in  modern  times 
Greater  Britain. 

vU 


Vlll 


Introduction 


f'M'' 


■■'.'.'■■ 


m 


m 


ruined  masterpiece,'  where  every  stain  and  blotch  is  a  dead 
loss.  Here  what  is  left  is  of  infinitely  greater  significance 
than  what  is  gone.  The  harmony,  the  simplicity,  the 
perfect  lines,  the  restfulness  of  all  Greek  work  are  still 
there  untouched;  the  wrinkles  and  scars  only  add  the 
quiet  pathos  of  age;  and  before  one's  imagination  easily 
rises  the  perfect  temple  as  it  was  in  its  prime. 

In  some  ways,  though,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  any- 
thing here  can  be  really  Greek — that  this  soil  was  as  truly 
Hellas  to  the  worshipers  in  the  temple  as  Argos  or  Achaia. 
Greek  stones  they  are — Greek  stones  bearing  witness  to 
Greek  builders — and  yet,  had  these  worshipers  of  a  Greek 
god  no  sons  that  Greek  tradition  and  the  Greek  language 
have  vanished  so  completely?  Here,  alas,  as  in  Sicily, 
the  race  has  disappeared.  The  tongue  of  Pythagoras 
and  Thee  ;itus  has  faded  from  memory  long  ages  ago, 
and  if  Balaustion  could  now  tell  the  story  of  Alcestis  to 
the  descendants  of  the  people  of  Syracuse,  they  would 
listen  in  ignorant  amazement  to  words  that  their  fore- 
fathers spoke  in  Corinth.  Indeed  the  decline  must  have 
begun  here  quite  early.  The  decay  of  power  in  the 
mother  cities,  the  drying  up  of  the  great  parent  streams 
of  Hellenic  life,  the  corrupting  presence  of  masterful  bar- 
barian neighbors,  all  helped  to  sap  the  vitality  of  the 
Greek  cities  of  southern  Italy.  Athens,  even  though  a 
shadow  of  her  old  self,  might  yet  remain  a  center  of  light 
to  the  world,  and  Athene  might  be  worshiped  in  the 
Parthenon  by  Greeks  and  Romans,  side  by  side.  But  the 
Italian  colonies  were  too  far  away.  Italy  became  Rome, 
and  though  the  Romans  might  themselves  do  reverence 
t.*  the  Greek  spirit  and  turn  to  the  study  of  Homer  and 

>  "The  Last  ?upper,"  at  Milan. 


..  ■>-«m.' 


Introduction 


IX 


Sophocles,  yet  the  impulse  came  from  Corinth  and  Athens, 
not  from  Magna  Graecia.  Barbarian  neighbors  and  alien 
soil  proved  too  strong  for  the  cities  of  Greater  Greece,  and 
Poseidon  had  to  look  sadly  down  from  h's  desolate  fane 
over  a  world  that  had  forgotten  him.  Greeks  and  gods  are 
alike  ghosts  in  this  quiet  plain  where  once  was  Poseidonia. 

But  they  were  not  always  ghosts.  It  is  perhaps  just 
as  well  before  going  on  to  study  the  power  and  glory  of 
Rome  or  the  ideals  and  fruits  of  the  Renaissance  that  you 
come  here  to  contenplate  these  remains  of  a  genius  as 
mighty  as  the  Roman,  far  greater  indeed  outside  of  the 
fields  of  law  and  politics,  and  even  more  subtle  and  potent 
in  its  message  to  us  of  to-day  than  that  of  Florence  her- 
self. These  offshoots  in  Italy  cf  the  Greek  race  were  an 
anticipation  and  a  symbol  of  the  ages  to  come.  To  every 
generation  of  Italians  for  twenty-five  hundred  years  this 
temple  has  preached  the  Greek  message  of  simplicity  and 
harmony.  To  every  generation  of  the  civilized  world 
during  the  same  time  have  Homer,  Sophocles,  Thucydides, 
and  Plato  been  quietly  teaching  freedom  and  strength  of 
thought,  symmetry  and  beauty  of  character,  Hobillty, 
balance,  self-restraint  in  conduct,  calm  joy6ushess~and 
spontaneity  in  heart  and  outlook  on  life.  All  of  us,  from 
the  Romans  of  Catb's  day  to  the  Arrie -leans  of  tTelwen- 
tieth  century,  look  back  to  the  Greeks  as  our  teachers. 

Yet  it  is  strange  and  tragic  to  see  how  fatally  the  one 
great  defect  of  the  Hellenic  genius,  its  lack  of  moral  sound- 
ness, seems  to  have  corrupted  the  colonists  and  Hellenized 
Italians  of  Sicily  and  South  Italy.  Instead  of  carrying  on 
tht  message  of  their  fathers,  and  expanding  it  to  yet  fur- 
ther grandeur,  they  gradually  lost  their  hold  on  the  great 
things  of  life.     Instead  of  the  Greek  race — so  famous  and 


\  1  ii  ?i'*«iHc.£^ufe^i^vw'  -  •^^t.:'Sis:^wamr- .«- 


naS»«7niin3K;iv'*':i<rTPraiit8S5K=5Wi; 


'JBik 


Introduction 


so  brilliant — invigorating  and  illuminating  the  Italian  spirit 
and  making  the  stock  of  Magna  Graecia  the  best  ii.  Italy, 
the  people  of  this  southland  were  weakened  and  degraded 
by  those  who  should  have  taught  and  inspired  them. 

Every  individual  and  racial  virtue,  as  the  Greeks  them- 
selves would  have  said,  has  its  defect.  No  one  debt  of 
Europe  to  ae  Greeks  is  greater  than  the  debt  of  individ- 
ualism— the  assertion  of  human  dignity,  self-respect,  and 
liberty  as  against  kings  or  gods.'  But  carry  this  to  excess, 
and  there  develops  shallow  irreverence,  insolent  unwilling- 
ness to  bow  to  either  law  or  wise  leader.  Next  perhaps  to 
the  debt  of  individualism  is  that  of  spontaneity,  of  whole- 
hearted delight  in  life  as  a  whole,  and  in  the  absolutely  free, 
direct  play  of  thought.  "To  get  rid  of  one's  ignorance,  to 
see  things  as  they  are,  and  by  seeing  them  as  they  are,  to 
see  them  in  their  beauty,  is  the  simple  and  attractive 
ideal  which  Hellenism  holds  out  before  human  nature;  and 
from  the  simplicity  and  charm  of  th  a  idea!,  Hellenism,  and 
human  life  in  the  hands  of  Hellenism,  is  invested  with 
a  kind  of  aerial  ease,  clearness,  and  radiancy;  they  are 
fujl  of  what  we  call  sweetness  and  light."  So  Matthew 
Arnold  puts  it.^  "The  best  man,"  says  Socrates,  "is  he 
who  most  tries  to  perfect  himself,  and  the  happiest  man 
is  he  who  most  feels  that  he  is  perfecting  himself." 
No  hing  surely,  if  it  be  truly  interpreted,  could  be  better. 
It  gives  new  and  inspiring  meaning,  this  Greek  attitude  to 
life,  to  our  Lord's  command:  "Be  ye  therefore  perfect!" 
Yet  let  this  free  play  of  mind,  this  spontaneous  joy  of  life, 
be  superficially  understood,  let  it  be  divorced  from  self- 

'  Note  the  attitude  of  Achilles,  Diomedes  or  Odysseus  to  Agamemnon  iu 
"Ihad"  I.,  IX.,  and  XIX.,  and  the  fearlessness  of  the  Greek  hero  Diomedes  in 
the  presence  of  the  God  of  War  himself  in  "Iliad"  V.  Contrast  these  with  the 
Asiatic  attitude  of  prostration  before  kin^s  and  gods. 

-"Culture  and  .Anarchv,"  p.  ii6. 


Introduction 


XI 


jcstraint,  let  this  "spontaneity  of  consciousness,"  to 
quote  Arnold  again,  be  separated  from  "strictness  of  con- 
science," and  it  ..ill  become  mere  destructive  licentious- 
ness. If  all  the  Greeks  could  have  been  as  Sophocles  and 
Socrates;  if  the  Golden  Age  of  Athens  could  have  been 
perpetual;  if  the  balance,  the  restraint  of  the  Parthenon 
and  the  "Electra,"'  could  have  sunk  deeply  and  per- 
manently into  the  Hellenic  spirit,  then  the  bright — inef- 
fably bright — flowering  of  a  marvelous  race  need  not  have 
ended  so  soon.  The  flowers  themselves  are  iiappily  im- 
mortal. But  the  plant  and  the  roots  lost  their  strength, 
and  not  in  Italy  alone,  but  over  the  Mediterranean  world, 
the  Greeks  bowed,  not  simply  to  force,  but  to  a  levity,  a 
lightness  of  soul,  an  incapacity  for  discipline,  a  wayward- 
ness, and  a  sensuality  which  the  prophetic  mind  of  Socrates 
had  foreseen  and  foretold  to  those  who  condemned  him  to 
death.  The  seeds  of  destruction  were  sown  and  sprout- 
ing while  Pericles  still  ruled,  while  the  Parthenon  frieze 
was  being  chiseled,  while  the  golde  i  words  of  ^schylus, 
of  Sophocles,  of  Euripides  were  floating  up  from  stage  to 
stone  seats  in  the  Theatre  of  Dionysus.  There  is  doom 
in  the  history  of  Thucydides  as  surely  as  in  the  prophecy 
of  Jeremiah.  And  the  full  weight  of  judgment,  the  inev- 
itable fruit  of  righteousness  scorned,  of  earnestness 
mocked,  of  appetites  uncurbed,  of  moral  laws  set  aside, 
was  seen  in  Tarentum,  in  Sybaris,  and  in  the  Capua  of 
Hannibal.  Greek  Italy  gave  to  the  stern  Romans,  not 
sweetness  and  light,  but  a  place  of  relaxation  and  a  theme 
for  contemptuous  epigrams. 

Even  as  the  Greeks — in  the  motherland  and  in  the 
colonies — were  setting  their  faces  more  and  more  towards 

'  The  "Electra"  of  Sophocles  I  mean,  not  of  Euripides. 


Xll 


Introduction 


|i;-  I 


mi: 


If; 


irk 


destruction,  the  little  Latin  city  by  the  Tiber  was  training 
its  citizens  to  the  very  virtues  which  would  have  saved 
Athens  from  her  fall.  Before  Philip  overthrew  the  Athe- 
nians and  Thebans  at  Mantineia  Rome  had  found  herself. 
Before  another  century  was  past  the  Greek  cities  of  south 
Italy  had  been  conquered  by  a  people  who  could  not  per- 
haps have  adequately  judged  a  tragedy  or  an  ode,  or  built 
a  Parthenon,  but  who  could  make  laws  and  obey  them, 
elect  consuls  and  follow  them,  and  who,  trained  to  civic 
virtues  in  a  little  city,  could  in  time  rule  the  world.  And 
yet  the  passing  centuries  are  merciful  to  the  weak,  even 
as  they  are  inexorable  to  the  strong.  This  Temple  of 
Poseidon  stands,  while  the  relics  of  luxury  and  degrada- 
tion have  been  swept  away.  The  good  remains;  the  evil 
has  vanished.  And  after  all,  the  stucco  that  once  bright- 
ened these  columns  is  not  more  completely  gone  than  the 
Temple  of  Jove  or  the  Circus  Maximus;  the  dust  of  the 
Greek  builders  is  not  more  utterly  scattered  than  that  of 
the  legions  that  conquered  Pyrrhus  and  Hannibal.  Con- 
querors and  conquered  are  alike  gone  and  forgotten.  Only 
that  which  the  world  esteems  true,  good,  strong,  or  beau- 
tiful su  -.ives  the  wreck  of  cities  and  the  fall  of  empires. 
You  hold  in  your  hand  a  Greek  play;  you  pore  over  the 
commentaries  of  Caesar;  you  sit  on  the  steps  of  a  Greek 
temple;  you  pace  along  with  sure  step  on  a  Roman  road. 
That  which  was  built  on  sound  foundations  has  stood  the 
test  of  time  and  chance;  all  else  has  been  washed  away. 
So  you  are  content  to  take  your  temple  as  you  take  your 
Plato — thankful  for  what  is  here.  To  you  it  is  the  em- 
bodiment of  all  that  was  worthiest  in  the  Greeks  of  Italy. 
If  that  which  was  weak  in  them  ultimately  destroyed  them, 
yet  time  has  been  just,  and  the  good  work  still  stands. 


ITALIAN    CITIES 


CHAPTER  I 


FROM  NAPLES  TO  POMPEII 


There  is  one  great  name  that  can  never  be  far  from 
the  mind  of  the  student  who  lands  in  South  Italy.  In  the 
north  the  deeds  of  tl.o  Piedmontese  and  those  of  Vene- 
tians, Lombards  and  Tuscans  overshadow  the  more  dis- 
tant past.  But  the  South  has  little  of  a  modem  air  about 
it;  its  greatest  memories  are  those  of  many  centuries  ago, 
and  in  that  distant  past,  though  a  Greek  temple  may  bring 
to  you  passing  thoughts  of  Magna  Graecia,  yet  back  of  all 
is  the  tremendous  name  of  Rome.  Long  before  you  see 
from  your  train  the  long  aqueducts  that  still  cross  the 
Campagna,  and  thunder  past  hoary  walls  into  the  city  of 
Romulus  and  Caesar,  you  feel  that  you  have  invaded 
Roman  territory.  And  it  is  even  trut  that  if  it  were  pos- 
sible to  step  from  your  ship  into  a  veritable  street  of 
Rome  you  would  suffer  a  loss.  Of  all  European  cities 
Rome  most  needs  an  introduction,  a  preparation,  a 
gradual  initiation  into  the  spirit  of  the  past  that  will  help 
you  to  disentangle  the  complexity  of  that  most  perplexing 
of  historical  labyrinths,  and  that  introduction  you  may 
obtain  very  ideally  in  the  country  about  Naples.  There 
you  are  surrounded  by  a  most  unique  and  distinctly  Italian 
environment — Italian  not  present  or  past,  but  partaking 

I 


^M:; 


0 


2  Italian  Cities 

in  some  subtle  way  of  all  the  centuries.     The  city  streets 
and  the  country  roads  are  modem  in  a  sense,  doubtless; 
perhaps  even  traversed  by  the  ubiquitous  trolley  car.  and 
yet  you  easily  eliminate  the  modem  features,  and  the  belief 
constantly  presses  into  your  mind  that  these  vistas  of  land- 
scape,  these  narrow  streets,  would  not  have  looked  strange 
to  the  soldiers  of  Mariu3.     The  ages  seem  to  dissolve  here 
as  they  do  in  few  other  places  in  the  worid,  and  many, 
many  times  you  have  the  thrill,  on  meadow  or  hill,  by 
ruined  wall  or  smiling  bay,  that  comes  of  an  intimate, 
direct,  personal,  and  vital  contact  with  ancient  Rome. 
You  are  not  yet  conscious  of  an  effort  to  study  what  you 
see.     Beauty  is  everywhere  about  you  and  you  revel  in  it. 
But  all  unconsciously  you  are  within  the  mighty  shadov/, 
and  only  by  degrees— perhaps  only  when  you  are  actually 
walking  the  streets  of  Pompeii— do  you  realize  that  this 
lovely  country  of  Campania  is  the  portico  of  the  city  of 
the  Caesars. 

It  is  three  weeks  now  since  you  landed  in  Naples, 
and  following  the  erratic  dictates  of  your  own  prefer- 
ences bfc.  .'k  yourself,  not  to  an  elaborate  hotel,  but 
to  a  half-ruined  old  palace— the  Palazzo  Donn'  Anna- 
out  on  the  road  to  Posilipo.'  Part  of  it  had  been 
fitted  up  as  a  pension,  and  though  you  had  to  toilfuUy 
climb  four  flights  of  marble  stairs,  yet  there  were  com- 
pensations that  you  valued.  From  your  window  you 
looked  out  over  beautiful  ruined  walls,  covered  with  ivy 
and  little  flowers.  From  the  roof,  just  one  flight  higher, 
you  had  an  exquisite  view  of  the  bay  and  of  this  marvel- 

1  Th»  ..nrthirn  roast  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  runs  out  to  Cape  Posilipo,  curves 
then  Tn'tl?S;'h«irbryr  wV^^hVo°^.uo/^^^^^^^ 

Cape  Miseno.    The  southern  terminus  of  the  Bay  is  Cape  wiassa.  not  lar  uvm 
Sorrento. 


him 


PVom  Naples  to  Pompeii 


ous  coast.  You  could  go  to  the  edge  and  look  down  on 
the  waves  that  lapped  the  foundations  of  your  palace. 
Far  away  across  the  bay  Vesuvius  sent  out  every  few 
minutes  its  puff  of  black  smoke.  Away  out  to  sea  you 
could  make  out  the  blue,  rugged  outline  of  Capri.  On 
the  land  side  rose  the  hill  of  Posilipo,  once  dotted  with 
Roman  villas,  and  now — even  without  the  glamour  of 
associations — a  glory  of  radiant  color  that  was  purely 
Neapolitan.  It  was  a  good  place,  this  Palazzo.  More- 
over, a  very  modern  trolley-car  passed  the  door  and  trans- 
ported you  at  will  farther  out  towards  Cape  Posilipo  or 
into  the  city,  for  the  reasonable  sum  of  one  penny. 

You  found  Naples  a  capital  place  in  which  to  spe.id 
some  lazy  days.  Not  that  you  desired  to  spend  much 
time  in  the  city  itself.  Every  one  wishes,  of  course,  to 
see  the  famous  Aquarium,  easily  the  first  in  the  world, 
and  to  stroll  in  the  beautiful  shore  park,  the  Villa  Nazio- 
nale,  which  so  admirably  reserves  a  goodly  stretch  of  the 
water  front  for  the  pleasure  and  refreshment  of  the  peo- 
ple. And  you  willingly  spent  many  hours  in  the  Museum 
among  the  statues,  the  Pompeian  bronzes,  and  the  faded, 
fascinating  old  frescoes.  But  your  chief  delight  was  in 
the  environs  of  the  city,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  piratical  look- 
ing cabman  and  his  ramshackle  conveyance  you  explored 
the  hills  above  Naples,  the  country  roads,  and  the  Phlegraean 
Fields,  that  incomparably  lovely  country  back  of  Baiae's 
Bay  and  over  towards  Cumae.  It  is  all  so  full  of  asso- 
ciations and  full  of  beauty  too.  It  rather  pleased  your 
fancy  thus  to  see  the  playground  of  the  Romans  before 
seeing  Rome  herself.  To  judge  Rome  wholly  by  the 
Forum  and  the  Colosseum  would  have  been,  you  cannot 
help  feeling,    singularly   inadequate.      Here,    though    it 


Italian  Cities 
4 

wouUl  seem  strange  to  some,  the  great  city  of  your  dream, 
was  seldom  forgotten.  Nowhere  is  f  -deq"-^!^)'  3^; 
sented.  it  is  true.  Even  the  shapes  of  the  h.lls,  the  basms 
of  the  lakes,  have  been  altered  by  earthquakes  smce 
Caesar's  time.  And  yet  you  were  within  the  charmed 
atmosphere,  and  the  occasional  relics  of  Roman  bu.ldmgs 
were  scarcely  needed  to  remind  you  that  you  were  tread- 
ing enchanted  ground. 

Yet  it  sometimes  seemed  to  you  a  strange  and  solemn 
thing  that  more  has  not  survived  of  the  actual  handiwork 
of  the  Romans  in  this  region  to  which  they  loved  so  to 
come.     At  Bais  itself  you  were  struck  almost  with  horror 
at  the  completeness  of  the  ruin  that  time  has  wrought 
Of  all  the  splendor  of  Rome's  favorite  pleasure  resort 
nothing  is  left  but  three  ruined  baths.     Here  the  pleasant 
vices  of  the  later  republic  and  the  early  Empire  swung  on 
without  let  or  hindrance,   and  here,  too.  darker  crimes 
came  sometimes  that  made  even  the  careless  pleasure- 
seekers  shiver  and  pause  in  their  mad  whirl  of  dissipation. 
But  the  villas  that  once  lined  the  beach  are  absolutely 
gone.     As  you  drove  along  the  ropd  that  leads  to  Pozzuoli 
vou  did  indeed  pass  frequent  signs  of  foundations,  bits  of 
masonry  with  criss-crossed  lines  where  the  stucco  had 
dropped  off.     But  the  fair  dwellings  and  luxurious  gardens 
where  Lucullus  and  Pompey,  Cicero  and  Cc«sar,  once  took 
their  ease  and  gazed-gossiping  and  sipping  Falemian 
wine-over   the   bay  that   still   lies  there   in  unchanged 
beauty,  are  utterly  destroyed.     The  best  preserved  of  the 
great  baths,  the  vaulted  structure  called  the  Temple  of 
Venus,   is  stripped   of   marble,   and   its  muddy  floor  is 
strewn  with  rubbish,  while  the  sulphur  springs  that  once 
refreshed  the  dissipated   frames  of  Claudii  and  Horatu 


From  Naples  to  Pompeii  ^ 

now  soak  away  into  the  soft  soil.     Hardly  would  Horace 
and  his  Maecenas  recognize  their  Baiae  now. 

Pozzuoli.  the  old  Puteoli.  where  Paul  landed,  is  near 
by.     It  is  modern,  you  suppose,  but  you  could  readily 
believe  that  its  streets  and  houses  are  ancient  or  medieval, 
and  you  wondered  whether  its  aspect  of  to-day  was  really 
very  different  from  that  of  two  thousand  years  ago.     You 
entered  your  first  amphitheater  here,  and  trod  in  some  trep- 
idation the  crater  of  "the  little  Vesuvius, "  Solfatara.  The 
solid  ground  of  pumice  and  lava  was  only  a  crust  beneath 
which  rolled  unguessable  terrors,  but  grass  and  myrtle  and 
little  blue  and  white  flowers  grew  on  every  hand  and  spread 
up  the  sides  of  the  crater  to  the  rim,  so  you  were  lulled 
to  a  sense  of  security.     Yet  the  fires  beneath  were  not 
wholly  left  to  speculation.     You  looked  down  the  throat 
of  a  miniature  crater  blown  open  by  the  volcano  in  a 
wrathful  moment  a  few  months  before,  and  saw  mud  boil- 
ing sullenly  six  feet  below;  you  peered  into  caverns  from 
which    sulphurous   steam   rolled   without    ceasing;    you 
ventured  several  paces  into  others  that  were  '  ss  repel- 
lant,  and  saw  where  the  Romans  in  older  days  used  to 
come  for  sulphur  baths.     Bold  men  indeed  thus  to  ven- 
ture into  the  mouth  of  Hades,  so  that   the  exhalations 
thereof  might  relieve  the  pangs  of  rheumatism!— for  the 
domains  of  Pluto  surely  cc'd  not  be  far  away.     Near 
by  is   Lake   Avemus,   and   grottoes   innumerable,   filled 
with  vapor,  give  ominous  sign  that  the  earth  demons  who 
destroyed  Pompeii,  and  who   have  ever  and  anon   torn 
asunder  parts  of  these  Phlegraean  Fields,  are  still  alert  and 
tending  their  never  quenched  fires  beneath. 

The  Promontory  of  Misenum  c.  Miseno  as  it  is  called 
now,  terminates  the  Bay  of  Naples  on  the  north,  and  near  it 


■■■ia 


W**?*;  t&*tt3fit?J " 


wijh 


jfH 


Italian  Cities 


are  the  ruins — few  and  meager — of  old  Misenum,  once 
the  most  important  naval  station  of  the  Roman  power  on 
this  side  of  Italy.  Here  the  good  Admiral  Pliny  was  sta- 
tioned as  commander  of  the  fleet  in  the  year  79  A.D.,  and 
from  here  he  observed  that  dread  cloud  shaped  like  an 
Italian  pine  that  portended  the  destruction  of  Herculaneum 
and  Pompeii,  His  nephew,  who  was  with  him  at  the  time, 
tells  us  all  about  it.  He  did  not  go  with  his  uncle  when 
the  admiral,  like  a  true  Roman,  hastened  across  the  bay 
in  his  galley  to  the  succor  of  friends  in  danger,  but  re- 
mained in  Misenum  deep  in  his  studies.  It  was  only 
when  the  tumult  of  eruption  and  earthquake  made  even 
Misenum  a  place  of  danger  and  terror,  that  the  young 
man  and  his  mother  took  to  their  chariots  and  sought  to 
flee  from  the  terrible  mountain.  The  scene  that  he 
describes  on  the  road  as  they  left  the  town  must  have 
been  repeated  in  far  more  dreadful  forms  in  many  places 
on  the  other  side  of  the  bay,  that  awful  night  and  morning. 
"The  ashes  now  began,"  he  narrates,  "to  fall  upon  us, 
though  in  no  great  quantity.  I  turned  my  head,  and 
observed  behind  us  a  thick  smoke,  which  came  rolling 
after  us  like  a  torrent.  I  proposed,  while  we  had  yet  any 
light,  to  turn  out  of  the  highroad,  lest  my  mother  should 
be  pressed  to  death  in  the  dark  by  the  crowd  that  followed 
us.  We  had  scarce  stepped  out  of  the  path  when  dark- 
ness overspread  us,  not  like  that  of  a  cloudy  night,  or 
when  there  is  no  moon,  but  of  a  room  when  it  is  shut  up 
and  all  the  lights  extinct.  Nothing  then  was  to  be  heard 
but  the  shrieks  of  women,  the  screams  of  children,  and 
the  cries  of  men;  some  calling  for  their  children,  others 
for  their  parents,  others  for  their  husbands,  and  only  dis- 
tinguishing each  other  by  their  voices;  one  lamenting  his 


From  Naples  to  Pompeii 


own  fate,  another  that  of  his  family;  some  wishing  to  die 
from  the  very  fear  of  dying;  some  lifting  their  hands  to 
the  gods;  but  the  greater  part  imagining  that  the  last  and 
eternal  night  was  come,  which  was  to  destroy  the  gods 
and    the    world    together."     Yet    the    darkness    lifted. 
Misenum,  though  strewn  with   ashes   and  cinders,   was 
spared.     Those  who  had  fled  returned  to  their  homes, 
with  only  this  fearsome  glimpse  of  the  tenfold  greater 
horror  that  had  fallen  upon  the  cities  lying  nearer  the 
mountam.     The  old  Roman  admiral  died,  overcome  by 
noxious  gases,  near  Castellamare,  and  Herculaneum  and 
Pompeu  were  blotted  out.     And  now  two  thousand  years 
after,  you  stood  there  by  the  pleasant  shore,  looking  across 
the  blue  waters  to  the  great  mountain  with  its  tuft  of  black 
smoke,  and  thinking  of  the  brave  old  Roman  scholar  and 
sailor  who  once  sailed  valiantly  across  those  waters  into 
darkness  and  showers  of  ashes. 

Three  weeks  have  passed,  and  you  are  in  La  Cava.    As 
you  sit  in  your  comfortable  room  and  let  your  thoughts 
drift  back  to  Baiae  and  Misenum,  you  feel  a  thrill  of  some- 
thing like  excitement  as  you  realize  that  to-morrow  you  will 
be  in  Pompeii.  To-day  in  Paestum  your  thoughts  have  been 
of  things  Greek.     But  now  as  you  bring  back  those  en- 
chammg  days  in  which  you  first  came  into  contact  with 
Rome,  when  you  tried  to  imagine  every  stalwart  guide  or 
peasant  m  the  armor  of  a  legionary,  when  you  tried  to 
reconstruct   imperial   villas   on   broken,   scarcely  visible 
foundations,  when  you  tried  to  restore  from  dingy  vaults 
and  lovely  bay  the  gay  life  of  Bais,  and  from  broken  piers 
and  heaps  of  rubble  the  great  moles  where  Roman  fleets 
were  moored— as  you  bring  back  those  first  days  in  Italy 
you  feel  that  now  you  are  to  take  your  second  step,  not 


J 


■ai 


8 


Italian  Cities 


to  Rome  just  yet,  Rome  is  still  too  complicated  and 
bewildering,  but  to  an  authentic  bit  of  an  old  Roman 
city,  more  Roman  than  Rome  herself. 

So  you  sleep,  and  rise,  and  bid  farewell  to  your  plump 
little  German  hostess,  and  in  due  time  board  the  funny 
little  toy  train  for  Pompeii.  The  station-master  calls  his 
sonorous  "Partenza!"  and  toots  his  whistle;  you  move 
off  at  a  speed  which  )':,u  could  not  possibly  equal  on  foot 
or  even  behind  fairly  good  horses;  and  soon,  after  an 
uneventful  journey,  you  hear  the  guard  call  the  familiar, 
world-famous  nam .,  and  get  out  at  a  neat  little  station. 
You  look  about  you  expectantly  for  ruins.  But  there  is 
only  a  quiet  green  country,  with  Vesuvius  a  little  distance 
away  to  the  north  and  more  mountains  south  and  south- 
west towards  Castellamare.  A  broad  roadway  leads  up 
to  a  modern  yellow  hotel.  Here  you  fortify  yourself  with 
some  lunch,  and  they  point  you  to  a  place  a  stone's  throw 
away  to  which  you  obediently  turn  your  steps,  marveling 
greatly.  Still  no  ruins.  Only  a  gentle  elevation  before 
you,  cleft  by  a  little  depression  where  you  find  an  office. 
V  ,j  buy  a  ticket  of  admission — which  includes  an  official 
guide — and  you  walk  up  a  path,  with  lovely  green  and 
flowered  banks  sloping  up  on  each  side,  show  your  ticket 
at  another  gate,  and  go  on  up  another  path — green  and 
beautiful.  Then  there  is  a  tunnel-like  archway  beneath 
which  you  walk  up  a  steep  little  slope,  and  all  at  once  you 
are  standing  on  a  pavement  that  was  laid  two  thousand 
years  ago,  with  a  street  lying  before  you  that  was  thronged 
with  people  when  Caesar  died  and  when  Christ  was  bom, 
and  houses  on  either  side  that  have  been  dead  and  tenant- 
less  since  the  building  of  the  Colosseum. 

For  an  hour  or  so  you  follow  your  guide  and  get  all 


■  ^%i'i- 


'■it ' 


■;'*.';-»^.-. 


■P 


From  Naples  to  Pompeii  9 

you  can  out  of  him.  He  has  the  keys  without  which  you 
could  not  get  at  some  of  the  most  interesting  corners  in 
Pompeii.  But  there  comes  a  time  when  his  usefulness 
ceases  to  be  a  sufficient  offset  to  the  disturbance  and  irri- 
tation which  even  the  most  obliging  official  conductor  must 
cause  you  in  such  a  place.  You  dismiss  him  with  thanks, 
some  small  moneys,  and  polite  lifting  of  the  hat,  and  you 
turn  to  your  own  devices.  Up  a  narrow  little  street  you 
walk  until  you  come  to  a  door  into  an  old  garden  sur- 
rounded by  a  low  stone  wall.  You  turn  in  and  sit  down 
'  ;i  a  grassy  little  mound  to  untangle  the  crowd  of  impres- 
sions and  let  the  atmosphere  of  the  old  city  sink  into  your 
spirit  in  silence. 

It  is  a  wonderfully  peaceful  little  nook  that  you  have 
found.  You  thought  of  it  as  a  garden  when  you  entered 
because  it  is  so  beautifully  carpeted  with  grass  and  pop- 
pies and  wee  blue  flowers;  and  yet  the  bits  of  foundations, 
the  shape  of  the  place,  and  the  pathetically  forsaken  look- 
ing little  shrine  in  one  comer  make  you  think  that  the 
stone  walls  must  once  have  been  roofed.  Here  where 
you  are  sitting  on  a  little  mound  with  a  scarlet  f.oppy  nod- 
ding by  your  foot  and  a  green  lizard  looking  ai:  you  from 
a  crevice  in  the  old  wall,  a  Pompeian  may  have  been 
cooking  or  eating  larks'  tongues,  or  contentedly  reading 
his  "Virgil,"  or  dreaming  on  his  couch,  nineteen  hundrtJ 
long  years  ago.  You  are  not  archeologist  enough  to 
decide  very  certainly  which  part  of  the  house  you  are  in. 
You  only  know  that  now  it  is  roofless  and  ruined  with 
only  the  little  niche  where  an  image  of  a  god  once  stood 
to  mutely  tell  you  of  the  warm  human  life  that  was  there 
until  the  volcano  choked  it  into  silence.  Just  over  the 
wall  is  a  space  they  call  the  Triangular  Forum  with  ruins 


mm 


WP 


W 


^ul 


lO 


Italian  Cities 


•:■') 


of  columns  that  were  raised  before  the  Parthenon  was 
built— the  oldest  remains  in  the  city.    And  across  it  you 
see  the  high  walls  and  portico  of  the  Tragic  Theater.    You 
were  in  there  ten  minutes  ago,  sitting  in  one  of  the  old 
stone  seats  and  trying  to  imagine  your  favorite  tragedy 
being  played    down   in    the    space  below.      You  were 
wishing  then  as  you  passed  through  the  empty  spaces 
and  looked  curiously  out  over  the  barracks  and  exer- 
cise ground  of    the  gladiators  behind  the  stage,  that 
you  could  know  what  tragedy  was  played  there  last.     A 
fieeting  vision  of  a  bright-robed  chorus  came  to  you,  and 
with  it  a  sad  little  echo  of  one  of  Sophocles'  odes— "Not 
to  be  bom  is  best,  and  next  in  happiness  is  the  lot  of  hin 
who  dies  in  childhood."     Perhaps  they  did  not  play  the 
Greek  tragedies  here  after  all,  and  yet  surely  Ennius  and 
his  fellows  would  scarcely  have  contented  so  cultivated  a 
people  h-re  in  this  semi-Greek  land.     How  far  these  gay 
Pompeians  could  enter  into  the  real  spirit  of  the  Attic 
tragedies  may  be  doubted  perhaps.     Certainly  they  would 
not  have  the  fine  delicacy  of  Athenian  taste.     Yet  they 
doubtless  appreciated  them  much  as  you  yourself  appre- 
ciate  German  operas,  perhaps  in  their  reverence  for  things 
Greek  even  more  so.     Those  stone  seats  in  which  you 
may  now  sit  and  meditate  in  quiet,  no  doubt  often  held 
serious  enough  auditors  two  thousand  years  ago,  and  you 
may  lean  forward  as  they  did  many  a  time  to  catch  the 
gestures  and  the  cadence  of  stately  dance  and  ode.     So 
much  of  ihe  building  is  left  in  perfect  condition  that  it 
is  easily  filled  for  you  with  the  color  and  life  of  the  older 
times.     And  you  murmured  to  yourself,  almost  as  you 
would  in  those  other  far  more  sacred  seats  on  the  slopes 
of  the  Acropolis: 


■  4^ 


cu 
o 

tJ 

as 
O 
u, 

u 

> 


t.*-. 


From  Naples  to  Pompeii  1 1 

'Then  what  golden  hours  were  for  us  I 

While  we  sate  together  there; 
How  the  white  vests  of  the  chorus 

Seemed  to  wave  up  a  live  air! 
How  the  cothums  trod  majestic 
Down  the  deep  iambic  lines; 
And  the  rolling  anapestic 
Curled,  like  vapor  over  shrines! 
"Oh  our  iCschylus,  the  thunderous! 
How  he  drove  the  bolted  breath 
Through  the  cloud  to  wedge  it  ponderous 

In  the  gnarlfed  oak  beneath. 
Oh  our  Sophocles,  the  royal. 

Who  was  bom  to  monarch's  place— 
And  who  made  the  whole  world  loyal, 
Less  by  kingly  power  than  grace. 
"Our  Euripides,  the  human— 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears; 
And  his  touches  of  things  common, 
Till  they  rose  to  touch  the  spheres!" 

The  bits  of  the  city  that  you  have  found  it  hardest  to 
reconstruct  for  yourself  have  been  the  ones  you  have  seen 
most  often  in  pictures-the  civic  Forum  and  the  temples 
As  you  walked  through  them  with  your  guide  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  your  imagination— unfortified  by  archeo- 
logical  Ie?rning-to  complete  the  broken  columns,  to  roof 
over  the  shattered  temples,  to  replace  the  statues  on  the 
empty  pedestals,  and  to  fill  all  with  the  busy  life  of  a 
Roman  city.     If  only  you  could  have  brought  back  from 
the  great  museum  at  Naples  all  the  statues  and  pictures 
which  have  been  taken  there  for  preservation  you  could 
do  better,  perhaps.     You  saw  them  there  of  course,  and 
you  dimly  remember  one  series  of  frescoes  representing 
the  life  of  the  Forum,  but  walking  about  the  corridors  and 


.-^'I 

n 


12 


Italian  Cities 


rooms  of  a  museum,  looking  at  faded  frescoes  and  bronzes 
and  marbles— duly  mounted  and  numbered — is  not  like 
seeing  them  in  place.  There  in  Naples  you  politely  gazed 
at  each  one,  saw  that  this  one  was  beautiful,  that  one  well 
preserved,  this  other  one  woefully  faded — and  finally  went 
away  tired,  but  triumphantly  conscious  of  duty  done,  with 
a  chaotic  mass  of  impressions  in  your  mind  that  you 
scarcely  dreamed  of  reducing  to  order.  Indeed  the  best 
intentions  in  the  world  would  have  been  baffled  by  the 
problem.  These  statues  and  frescoes  once  adorned  the 
temples,  the  atria,  the  gardens,  the  dining-rooms  of  cul- 
tured  gentlemen  of  the  age  of  Augustus  or  Titus.  When 
they  were  removed  from  their  setting,  half  of  their  beauty 
and  all  of  their  meaning— their  decorative  effectiveness 
— were  taken  away. 

So  as  you  meditate  in  your  garden  your  memory  halts 
very  briefly  at  the  impressive  ruins  of  the  Forum  and  the 
temples.  You  have  really  found  more  that  interested  you 
in  the  streets  and  houses.  For  here  the  echo  of  the  old 
life  is  astonishingly  real.  The  narrow  little  streets  are 
most  unmistakably  streets,  and  you  almost  felt  as  you 
walked  along  them  that  curious  Roman  eyes  might  be 
watching  you  from  the  little  windows,— that  stately  shades 
in  purple-edged  robes  might  be  strolling  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  scornfully  eyeing  you,  barbarous  Anglo-Saxon 
that  you  are.  But  meanwhile  you  in  your  new-world 
lordliness  were  marveling  at  the  narrowness  and  lack  of 
color  in  these  Pompeian  streets.  Even  the  broadest  can- 
not be  much  more  than  twenty-five  feet  wide, — just  room 
enough  for  two  chariots  to  pass  abreast  after  you  take  off 
space  for  the  narrow  sidewalks,— and  you  remember  only 
three  of  these  spacious  highways  altogether.     Th .  rest 


^■■'.- •'"••<'■. 


:.-r  -  f  n  '-* 


From  NapJes  to  Pompeii 


»3 

are  surely  no  more  than  nine  or  ten  feet  wide,  a  few  per- 
haps twelve  or  fifteen,  and  when  you  have  allowed  foTa 
narrow  walk  or  curbstone  on  each  side,  there  is  only  space 
enough  for  one  chariot  to  go  .long  the  roadway  '  So 
stramed  was  its  course,  indeed,  that  the  solid  lava 
whet  '";':  ''''"'^^':'^^  «^"'  ^^^  deep  ruts  of  Z 
brinfh         .     ''"'  '"°'''''"  '^^"^'  ^°°'  *hich  helped  to 

i  y  o'f  t  aT  r:''  t"^  ""^^""^  '^^''y  -^  '^— ■ 

a  font  n      f  .  "'  °^  ^"^»'^^°""  on  each  side  is  often 

oot  or  a  foot  and  a  half  high.     .  ,  that  in  time  of  heavy 
rain,    the    roadway   would    becon  _    a   rushing    stream 
hemmed  m  by  banks  .  d  floor  of  stone.     To  pJZTo'r 
he    comfort   of    pedestrians    therefore,   the  "^^hought  u 
authont.es  placed  broad  stepping-stones,  one  or  more  a 
the  breadth  of  the  street  demanded,  arranged  so  tha    the 
wheels  of  a  vehicle  could  pass  nicely  on  either  side.     You 
stood  and  noted  the  smoothness  of  the  stones,  where  the 
pandas  of  bygone  ages  had  worn  them,  and  as  you  looked 
with  a  kmd  of  shiver  over  the  worn  edge  of  a  fountain 
rubbed  smooth  by  hands  that  might  have  Lched  c"      •  ' 
you  saw  the  lead  pipes  that  carried  pure  water  through 
streets  and  houses  till  the  ashes  fell  in  their  vTither^^?!' 
and  the  fountains  bubbled  no  more 

all  ^tr  ''"■'  '^^'^-P'-°^«^'"g  -gainst  the  grayness  of  it 
all.     Stone  was  everywhere.     Relentless  pavement  filled 

rom'r\^"'  r  ^^°"^  ^^"^  °^  ''^  ^--  -e"  -th 
from  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.     You  will  chafe  at  thi 

many  a  t.me  m  the  months  to  come,  for  it  is  as  charac te 

lonrJr  ?  .  °'  ^""^"^  ''^'y-  «"^  y-  ^-"d  before 
long  where  the  Pompeian  looked  for  his  color  and  for  the 
flowers  and  green  that  would  relieve  his  eye  from  the  gl  rl 
of  sun  on  stone.     For  you  turned  mto  a  door-one  of  tl 


H 


Italian  Cities 


doors  that  your  guide  had  to  unlock — and  found  an  exquis- 
ite little  Roman  house  lying  before  you.  Vaguely  you 
remembered  in  school-days  having  heard  of  the  atrium  of 
an  ancient  house,  but  you  never  had  really  imagined  vividly 
what  the  word  could  mean.  Well,  one  was  before  you 
now.  You  were  standing  in  a  little  vestibule,  and  before 
you  lay  a  wide  hall.  Several  little  rooms, — conceivably 
sleeping-rooms,  though  small  to  your  eye, — opened  from 
this  hall,  but  they  scarcely  interested  you  as  much  as  the 
atrium  itself.  It  was  evidently  the  room  into  which  any 
one  who  passed  the  threshold  entered  at  once,  the  general 
utility  room,  the  reception-room  for  casual  or  business  call- 
ers, the  more  public,  less  personal  part  of  the  house.  In 
the  middle  of  the  floor  you  saw  a  square  basin,  and  over  it 
an  opening  in  the  roof  that  admitted  rain,  air,  and  light. 
Beyond,  through  a  hallway  closed  once  by  draperies,  your 
eye  met  the  welcome  rest  of  green.  You  moved  forward 
to  it  eagerly,  passed  between  two  pillars,  and  instinct  told 
you  that  the  lovely  little  retrer  ou  were  entering  was  the 
part  of  the  little  house  where  .  aly  the  family  and  friends 
were  admitted.  A  gentleman  named  Aulus  Vettius  lived 
here,  they  say,  and  indeed  you  were  inclined  to  envy  him. 
You  were  standing  in  the  peristyle  of  the  house — an 
open  colonnade  surrounding  a  beautiful  little  garden.  Ex- 
quisite little  statues  stood  on  pedestals  here  and  there,  flow- 
ers and  shrubs  raised  their  heads  to  the  open  sky,  and  in  the 
rooms  opening  upon  the  colonnade  and  garden  you  found 
frescoes  that  seemed  to  you  both  better  preserved  and 
infinitely  more  imeresting  than  any  you  saw  at  Naples. 
One  room  particularly  delighted  you.  It  was  adorned  on 
all  sides  with  paintings,  but  your  eye  especially  fell  on 
black  bands  nine  inches  high  encircling  the  walls  in  which 


^^T 


»^rom  Naples  to  Pompeii  15 

were  painted  in  bright  harmonious  joyous  colors  exquisite 
little  Cupids  and  Psyches  doing  all  manner  of  things- 
gathering  flowers,  making  and  selling  oil,  selling  garlands 
of  roses,  playing  games,  working  in  metals,  making  cloth, 
gathering  grapes  and  toiling  at  the  wine-press,  racing  in 
the  games  of  the  circus  with  antelopes  for  horses— 
a  glowing  series  of  lovely  shapes  and  colors,  quaint  and 
beautiful  beyond  belief.  You  turned  from  them  to  the 
panels,  sparkling  with  dainty  flying  and  dancing  forms,  and 
you  stood  in  amazement.  You  came  to  Pompeii  expect- 
ing ruins.  You  found  them,  certainly,  but  you  found  far 
more— a  city  forsaken  and  silent,  but  filled  with  eloquent 
voices  that  made  the  ancient  past  as  yesterday,  with  bril- 
liant shapes  of  beauty,  graceful  columns  inclosing  flowers 
and  entwined  by  ivy,  figures  in  marble  and  bronze  and 
rosy  frescoes  that  seemed  to  smile  in  vivid  life  at  you  as 
they  danced  and  played  in  tneir  deathless  youth. 

It  is  all  fresh  in  your  mind  as  you  sit  there  in  the 
garden  by  the  little  old  shrine.  And  after  you  Iia/e  pon- 
dered  over  it,  you  go  out  to  stroll  about  and  explore 
for  yourself.  Each  open  door  you  come  to  you  enter  and 
you  take  an  unexpected  pleasure  in  comparing  diflferent 
houses,  noting  the  varying  shape  of  the  atrium,  .nd  the 
number  and  size  of  the  smaller  rooms.  You  always  look 
with  especial  interest  for  the  peristyle  with  its  garden, 
and  you  soon  find  that  some  householders  were  not  able 
to  afford  one,  that  others  had  only  one  side  adorned  with 
a  colonnade,  and  that  still  others  had  not  only  the  com- 
plete  peristyle,  but  an  additional  garden  beyond  at  one 
side.  In  these  open  houses  you  do  not  find  any  frescoes 
that  compare  with  those  in  the  house  of  Vettius,  and  yet 
even  the  faded  ones  that  you  come  upon  are  interesting, 


i6 


Italian  Cities 


and  now  and  then  on  a  wall  you  find  a  graceful  head  or 
an  airy  flying  figure  whose  beauty  penetrates  even  through 
the  faded  tints  and  defacing  blotches.  Some  \dndows 
that  you  pass  lead  into  darkness  that  you  hesitate  to  pene- 
trate, so  damp  and  uninviting  are  they  within,  but  you 
lean  in  and  pluck  a  little  flower  or  maidenhair  fern  to 
send  home.  Up  and  down  the  quiet  streets  you  wander 
aimlessly,  thinking  of  Glaucus,  whose  house,  one  of  the 
first  you  visited,  you  think  you  understand  better  than 
when  you  first  read  the  "Last  Days,"  and  of  blind  Nydia 
and  Sallust  and  old  Pansa,  but  even  more  of  the  busy  every- 
day life  that  once  enlivened  the  streets,  and  of  the  men  and 
women  who  slept  in  those  narrow  cells  or  reclined  in  cool 
luxury  in  the  shadow  of  some  white  peristyle.  You  are 
walking  in  Roman  streets,  looking  at  Roman  houses;  it  is 
Rome  itself  in  miniature,  net  simply  the  insignificant  pro- 
vincial city  of  Pompeii.  The  touch  of  Vesuvius,  which  to 
io  many  was  the  blast  of  debtruction,  was,  after  all,  a  pre- 
serving hand,  spread  over  this  bit  of  the  older  world  and 
lifted  in  our  own  day  to  give  as  one  more  glimpse  of  the 
Hfe  of  the  past.  The  Imperial  City  herself  has  vanished. 
Only  a  few  columns  and  arches  and  brick  walls  show  us 
the  city  of  the  Caesars.  But  as  you  walk  along  the  broad- 
est 5treet  in  Pompeii — the  street  of  Mercury — and  pass 
undc  ^he  Arch  of  Caligula,  and  stroll  along  through  the 
Foruhi,  and  look  up  and  down  the  narrow  streets  with 
their  lines  of  gray  silent  houses.,  you  catch  your  breath  as 
you  think  what  it  all  means.  It  is  a  vision  of  a  city  that 
died  and  was  buried  while  St.  John  the  Divine  still  walked 
the  earth,  while  the  helmets  of  the  Roman  legions  were 
newly  gleaming  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem  and  on  the 
moors  of  Britain,  over  eighteen  hundred  years  ago. 


CHAPTER   II 

ANCIENT  ROME 

y  me   via  Appia,  in  a  carriage  that  you  could 

ancy  was  a  chariot,  with  the  echo  in  your  bra^n  o    t,  e 

tramp  of  armed  legions  behind  you.     But  alaTfor  th! 

reality  of  things,     You  will  p^oblbly  ent  b"  and 

u'Th  To'df'  TZ'  '''  P'^"^^"^  gard'ens  b;f:r  . 
you,  the  modern  Via  Nazionale  that  you  swin^  intn  , 

.cm    t  ,,,er  have  little  semblance  to  t'he  RoTe^o  Tou 

dreams.     And  you  might  look  long  for  the  Rome  of  your 

h  Rome  If  """/"'  '"^"^^"^  ^°'"'"-^-'  P-«ence  o' 
the  Rome  of  yesterday.  For  Rome  is  bewildering  Her 
r-ddle  IS  not  to  be  read  in  one  day  or  in  th  ee'     The 

ZlTZ       I      ^"'''  '°"'^  °'  'h^  P^^^  v°i^«  even 
hat  nil  the  world  once  listened  to,  do  not  compete  with 

waitt  rL^'°""  °^  ^^'"^^"  ^"^  -"^--     Vou  m" 
wait  until  the  noise  ceases  or  is  as  nothing  to  you   and 

el'l^ed'^of^'v^ain'  7/°"^^  "  '''  ""'^  ^.^ ^..'T'^^ 

pat  ence  ther  ^  ^"''  '"'  "^^'"  '"  '■^^—  -d 
patience,   there   may   appear  to   you   her  ancient  sons 

Scipio  and  C^sar,  the  gentle  Virgil  and  the  grave  Lucre! 
nus,  and  those  men-consuls,  emperors,  and'^pes-who 
can  murmur  to  you  tales  of  Rome  the  Eternal 

Shocking  and   philistine  as  it   sounds,  a 'very    ideal 
way  m  which  to  approach  Rome  would  'be  b;Talll 

»7 


vr-h-iafc.-' 


i8 


Italian  Cities 


riv> 


You  are  floating  along,  let  us  say,  high  above  the  highest 
trees  and  towers,  sailing  with  a  light  breeze  down  the 
course  of  the  Tiber.     Before  and  below  you  lies  the  city 
Towenng  to  the  right,  quite  near  you,  rises  the  great 
dome  of  St.  Peters,  and  not  far  from  it  on  the  river  bank 
you  see  the  round  tomb  of  Hadrian,  the   castle  above 
which  a  destroying  angel  once  sheathed  his  sword  at  the 
prayer  of  a  pope.'     Nearer  you,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
river,  you  see  a  city  gate-the  Porta  del  Popolo— and 
inside  It  a  piazza  from  which  three  streets  run  off  into  the 
heart  of  the  city.     The  central  one  is  the  Corso  Umberto 
very  nearly  the  old  Via  Flaminia,  and  your  eye  follows  it 
until  It  IS  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  houses  in  the  distance 
Then  your  gaze  goes  on,  leaps  over  the  tangled  mass  of 
bmldings  and  streets,  and  catches  a  glimpse  of  a  great 
pile  which  must  surely  be  the  Colosseum.    From  your  lofty 
eyne  you  can  see  Rome  as  an  eagle  might  see  it,-not 
the  city  of  Tarquin  and  Coriolanus,  but  the  Rome  of 
the  emperors  and  popes,  with  the  Hill  of  Gardens   the 
Pincian.  just  inside  the  wall,  and  the  city  sweeping  on 
before  you  over  the  old  plain  of  the  Campus  Martius  by 
the  nver  and  over  the  higher  ground  of  the  Quirinal  Hill. 
Then  as  your  airy  ship  moves  on  over  all  this  later  city 
you  distinguish  those  other  hills  which  were  for  so  many 
centuries  as  holy  ground  to  the  rulers  of  the  world— the 
Capitoline  and   the  Palatine,   which  with  the  Esquiline 
looked  down  upon  the  heart  of  ancient  Rome. 

Now  you  can  let  the  rest  of  the  city  go.     St.  Peter's 
the  Pincian  Hill,  and  the  Corso  gave  you  your  bearings 
for  the  part  of  Rome  that  lies  from  the  Quirinal  towards 
the  Porta  del  Popolo  and  the  Vatican.     Your  eye  caught 

>  Hence  called  the  Caslle  of  the  Holy  Angel,  St.  Angelo. 


•--  .?:• 


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Ancient  Rome  ,« 

tbe  royal  palace  of  Victor  Emmanuel  as  you  passed  over 
U.e  Qu.nnal  atself .  But  now  these  are  all  put  behind  you. 
Modern  Rome,  ew     -^apal  Rome,  is  as  if  it  were  not,  and 

oMh"  PaCe  ""'  ^"  ^°"'  '-'''  "  '-'  -  ^'^  --^^ 
Before  you  lies  one  of  the  most  famous  bits  of  ground 
.n  the  whole  world,  covered  with  appalling  ruin.     Here 
are  broken  walls  about  a  court,  the  house  of  the  vestal 
v.rgms;  just  to  the  left  three  lonely  columns,  the  Temple  of 
Castor;  further  to  the  left  under  the  shadow  of  the  Capi- 
tohne.  more  groups  of  stately,  ruined  columns,  the  Tem- 
ples of  Saturn  and  Vespasian;  a  great  paved  space  with 
rows  of  broken  stumps  of  columns,  the  Julian  Basilica 
bu.lt  by  C..sar  himself,  to  relieve  the  main  Forum  from 
some  of  ,ts  congestion;    everywhere  mounds  of  bricks 
crumbhng  walls,  marble  slabs,  footworn  paving-stones- 
pathenc  relics  of  departed  glory!     Just  a  littl  way  to 
your  left  ,s  the  Capitoline  Hill,  where  once  gleamed  the 

>ou  ,s    he  low  elevation  of  the  Esquihne.     Only  a  few 
mmutes'  walk  to  your  right  is  the  sullen  mass  of  the  Colos 
seum      It  ,s  all  real  enough,  and  yet  your  imagination  is 
grapphng  w.th  a  hard  task.     To  rebuild  the  pafaces  fro 

he  crumb  mg   brick  walls,   to  bid   the  lonely  columns 
standmg  there  like  skeleton  sentries  watching  over  t .; 
dead,  spnng  once  more  into  shapely  templesf  to  sweep 

way  the  heaps  of  broken  brick  and  stone  and  re'ace 
them  w,th  statues  and  stately  walls,  and  then  to  see  in 
your  mmd's  eye  the  pulse  of  the  world  beating  here   the 

iT  d':;  ^";'  ^"'  ^'"^"'^^  °^  ^  -P'^^'  that  once  rued 

and  and  sea  from  the  Cheviot  Hills  to  the  Euphrates  - 

this  ,s  the  task  that  dazes  you.     Yet  if  it  is  only  Jin  to 


*9^®7?5S*aH 


20 


Italian  Cities 


you,  if  you  only  look  at  it  curiously  with  the  superfit 
interest  and  momentary  awe  of  the  sight-seer,  then  it  is 
not  Rome.  Some  ruins  are  beautiful  in  themselves. 
These  are  not.  They  are  simply  all  that  the  storms  of 
centuries  have  left  of  the  heart  of  a  very  great  city,  and 
we  do  not  get  their  message  of  pathos  and  disaster  unless  we 
try  to  see  the  life  and  beauty  and  power  that  once  were  there. 
Fifteen  hundred  years  ago,  the  last  of  the  Roman 
poets,  singing  the  praises  of  Honorius,  stood  here  by  the 
Imperial  Palace  on  the  Palatine  and  saw  the  Queen  of  the 
Worid,  old  and  tottering  to  her  fall,  but  still  proud  and 
glittering  with  the  pomo  of  Empire. 

"Here  power  itsel<  is  prouder,  feels  the  thrill 
Supreme  of  dominion.     Here  the  palace  lifts 
Its  haughty  head  aloft  and  sees  the  shrines, 
Stern  outposts  of  the  gods,  ranged  there  below 
A  circling  band  of  heavenly  sentinels; 
And  yonder  'neath  the  Thunderer's  altars  hang 
The  giants  to  the  rock  Tarpeian.     There 
Are  seen  the  gleaming  doors,  the  lofty  fanes 
That  fill  the  narrow  air,  o'ertopped  with  forms 
Th  't  seem  to  fly  into  the  enfolding  clouds. 
The  rostral  columns  clad  with  prows  of  ships, 
The  stately  walls  and  towers  that  men  have  raised 
On  high  as  if  to  lift  the  hills  themselves 
Nearer  to  heaven.    And  there,  spanning  the  way, 
Arches  innumerable  glittering  with  spoils 
Dazzle  the  eye,  that  turns  amazed  and  hurt 
From  the  gold,  the  gleam,  the  splendor,  which  is  Rome."  > 

This  was  in  the  later  empire,  nine  hundred  years  after 
the  indignant  patricians  had  expelled  from  Rome  the  royal 
race  of  the  Tarquins,  and  nearly  eight  hundred  years 
since  a  foreign  invader  had  set  foot  within  the  city  walls. 

>  Claudian,  "  Panegyric  on  the  Sixth  Consulship  of  Honorius." 


*  'MHi,J'V:MC 


.%:. 


^^S? 


Ancient  Rome 


21 


Now  let  us  close  our  eyes  and  try  to  bring  back  that  tre- 
mendous drama  of  the  making  of  Rome. 

You  look  through  the  thick  mist  of  centuries  and  see 
the  clouds  part  for  a  moment  at  the  year  500  before  the 
coming  of  Christ.     Rome  is  only  a  little  city  on  the  Tiber, 
clustered  about  its  citadel  on  the  Capitoline,  with  hostile 
enemies  within  a  half-day's  walk  of  her  gates.     She  is  a 
republic,  and  yet  comparatively  few  of  those  whom  you 
see  walking  her  streets  or  trading  in  her  markets  or  fight- 
ing her  battles  have  any  share  in  her  government.     Many 
of  these  traders  and  fighters  are  of  the  plebs— outsiders 
who  have  drifted  in  after  the  founding  of  the  city— or  freed 
slaves,  or  dependents  of  one  kind  or  another,  all  consti- 
tuting a  large  proportion  of  the  residents  of  the  city, 
sometimes  a  wealthy  and  intelligent  element    too.     The 
prouder  groups  that  you  see  gathering  to  their  assemblies 
in  the  Comitium  across  the  Forum  are  the  only  true  citi- 
zens of  Rome.     They  are  the  patricians,  and  they  alone 
bear  the  title  of  "Roman  People."     Among  them  you 
may  see  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus,  who  is  to  be  immor- 
talized two  thousand  years  later  by  a  descendant  of  savage 
Germans,  and  Marcus  Junius  Brutus,  who  had  led  the 
revolt  against  the  kings  nine  years  before,  and  who  was 
further  to  become  the  type  for  all  time  of  the   savage 
sternness  of  the  Roman  conception  of  law  by  condemning 
his  own  sons  to  death  for  disobeying  orders.     It  would  be 
hard  to  find  a  Greek  doing  that,  outside  of  Sparta  at  any 
rate,  and  if  you  could  find  such  a  case  it  would  not  be 
typical,  but  exceptional.     What  harmony,  grace,  mental 
feariessness  were  to  a  Greek,  obedience  and  law  were  to 
a  Roman,  and  the  contrast  between  the  two  races  was  a 
radical  one. 


Si73HIBV^fie<'> 


Tifia: 


'^;,  vAiii''  "W-.'--,  •  ■  \'.^ 


-IS- 


^5*^ 


22 


Italian  Cities 


The  mists  close  over  this  Rome  of  500  B.C.,  and  rise 
again  a  century  later.  It  is  still  only  a  city,  larger,  but 
still  facing  a  strong  Etruria  on  the  north  across  the  Tiber, 
with  Latin  cities  all  about  her  and  warlike  Samnites  a  little 
distance  away,  and  with  rumors  reaching  her  of  fierce 
Gauls  far  north,  above  Etruria.  But  if  there  is  little  out- 
ward expansion  there  is  a  vital  inward  change.  The 
patricians  no  longer  have  the  monopoly  of  citizenship,  of 
the  proud  name  of  Roman  People.  The  outsiders,  the 
plebs,  cannot  hold  office  yet  in  the  republic,  it  is  true,  but 
they  have  obtained  written  laws,  they  have  the  right  of 
voting  on  every  matter  affecting  the  public  weal,  of 
accepting  or  refusing  laws,  of  electing  magistrates,  and 
of  intermarriage  with  patricians.'  And  in  addition  to  all 
this,  they  have  a  spokesman,  an  elected  leader,  whose  per- 
son is  sacred — the  Tribune  of  the  Plebs — to  whom  the 
patricians  have  conceded  the  power  of  annulling  any  act 
or  law  deemed  injurious  to  the  people  by  one  word, 
"Veto,"  "I  lorbid  it."     Rome  is  almost  a  democracy. 

Once  more  a  century  passes.  It  is  the  year  300  B.C., 
and  we  look  again.  The  city  has  passed  through  periloui 
times  since  our  last  view.  The  fourth  century  was  hardly 
begun  when  a  horde  of  wild  Gauls  swept  down  from  the 
north,  broke  the  strength  of  Etruria,  annihilated  the  forces 
of  Rome  at  the  river  Allia,  entered  and  sacked  the  city, 
and  would  have  captured  the  citadel  itself — the  capitol — 
had  not  the  stealthy  night  climbers  startled  a  flock  of 
geese  whose  cackling  awoke  a  valiant  officer,  Marcus 
Manlius,  and  saved  Rome.     But  the  terrible  tide  of  bar- 


1  This  side  of  Roman  development  is  most  luminously  traced  bv  Warde 
Fowler  in  his  little  "  City  State  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans."  The  facts  are 
also  be  given  clearly  and  accurately  in  the  histories  ol  Rome  by  Sbuckburgb 
and  Botstord. 


^-_„„ 


Ancient  Rome 


23 


barians  was  turned  back,  and  the  struggle  for  internal 
harmony  went  on  until  all  the  distinction  between  patri- 
cian and  plebeian  was  done  away  with.     Democracy  was 
definitely  achieved  in  ^ff  B.C.,  or  perhaps  more  safely 
still  by  340  B.C.,  two  years  before  Philip  of  Macedon  was 
to  defeat  the  Athenians   and  Thebans   on  the  field   of 
Chseroneia.     So,  as  we  look  down  on  the  city  now  we 
see  a  democracy — and  an  expanding  power.     Rome  had 
often  before  had  to  wage  desperate  war  against  her  neigh- 
bors, and  she  may  even  have  risen  to  be  the  chief  city  in 
a  Latin  confederacy.     But  after  four  hundred  years  since 
her  foundation,'  and  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  since 
the  expulsion  of  the  kings,  she  had  remained  only  a  city 
after  all,   influential  and  feared  perhaps,  and  known  to 
have   hard-fighting   and   well-disciplined   citizen-soldiers, 
but  still  only  one  of  the  central  Italian  city-states.     Now 
the  attainment  of  democracy  seemed  to  mean  an  impulse 
to  a  new,  aggressive  vigor.     During  the  last  thirty  or  forty 
years  of  this  fourth  century,  while  Alexander  and  his 
generals  were  turning  Asia  upside  down,  Rome  turned 
swiftly  against  one  enemy  after  another,  and  as  the  cen- 
tury closes  we  see  her  no  longer  a  colleague  of  the  Latins, 
but  their  chief,  and  a  power  whose  rapidly  rising  greatness 
is  about  to  provoke  a  combination  of  the  strongest  states 
in  Italy  against  her— Etruscans,  Umbrians,  and  Samnites. 
So  we  almost  expect  what  we  shall  see  when  the  mist 
rises  at  the  close  of  the  third  century  and  shows  us  Rome 
in  the  year  200  B.C.     It  has  been  a  tremendous  century. 
The  combined  powers  of  Italy  have  been  crushed;  a  for- 
midable invader,  Pyrrhus,  King  of  Epirus,  kinsman  to  the 

'  I  assume  here  for  coavcnicncc  that  Rome  was  founded  in  7i1  B  C  —the 
traditional  date-and  the  kings  expelled  in  509  B.C. 


«■ 


24 


Italian  Cities 


great  Alexander,  has  been  met  and  hurled  back;  Carthage, 
the  great  Phoenician  city-state,  ruler  of  the  seas,  daughter 
of  Tyre,  mistress  of  the  Mediterranean  trade,  has  been 
fought  and  beaten  in  two  terrible  duels.  One  of  the 
greatest  generals  of  whom  history  knows,  after  bringing 
Rome  to  deadly  peril,  and  defeating  her  armies  again  and 
again,  has  been  at  last  worn  out  and  crushed,  and  all  the 
prestige  and  influence  of  Carthage  has  passed  to  her  con- 
queror, with  Sicily,  the  islands  of  the  western  Mediter- 
ranean, and  much  of  Spain.  Rome  is  become  the  chief 
power  of  the  Mediterranean  woH,  with  only  Macedon, 
Syria,  and  Egypt  as  possible  rivals. 

It  is  the  middle  century  of  the  five  of  republican  Rome. 
The  first  two,  from  500  to  300,  are  chiefly  interesting 
from  the  point  of  view  of  internal  development.  Rome 
was  then  growing  to  mature  statehood,  developing  her 
individuality,  learning  the  arts  of  war  and  citizenship. 
The  last  two,  from  200  B.C.  to  the  establishment  of  the 
Empire  at  the  beginning  of  our  era,  were  centuries  during 
which  Rome  was  unquestionably  the  chief  power  in  the 
Mediterranean  world,  steadily  rising  to  absolute  mastery. 
The  turning-point  in  her  career  falls  in  that  middle  cen- 
tury of  the  five — 300  to  200 — the  century  that  contains 
tiie  conquest  of  central  and  southern  Italy,  the  repulse  of 
Pyrrhus,  the  life  and  death  struggle  with  Carthage,*  the 
rise  of  Rome  as  a  naval  and  commercial  state,  and  the 
passing  of  the  governing  power  from  the  democracy  to 
the  Senate.  You  may  grow  to  feel  a  certain  dread  and 
repulsion   at   this   third-century   Rome,   with   her  fierce 

'  A  most  interestine  acmunt  of  the  war  with  Carthage  is  contained  in 
R.  Bosworth  Smith's  "Cartt.  ■>'  and  the  Carthaginians"  or  his  "Rome  and 
Carthage,"  in  the  Epochs  of  .  cient  HisCory  series.  Those  who  wish  a  true, 
but  by  no  means  attractive  acco..rii  of  !':<.>  in  Carthage  may  liud  it  iu  t'iaubert'b 
interesting  but  terrible  novel,  "Salimmbo." 


Ancient  Rome 


^5 


energy,  her  merciless  determination,  her  refusal  to  loosen 
her  grip  on  an  enemy  until  she  has  shaken  out  his  life. 
You  may  see  with  horror,  and  even  disgust,  the  cold,  piti- 
less stamp  with  which  she  tramples  the  power  to  do  further 
mischief  out  of  a  conquered  foe.     But  it  is  not  easy  to 
refuse  admiration.     Terrible  as  she  was,  unlovable  as  she 
was,  she  was  unquestionably  great.     Struck  down  in  two 
great  defeats  by  Pyrrhus  and  asked  by  him  on  what  terms 
the  Romans  would  make  peace,  they  showed  their  claim 
to  empire  by  their  answer— //w/  the  Romans  would  make 
no  terms  with  an  enemy  on  Italian  soil.     Well  might  the 
impressed  envoy  assure  his  master  that  the  Roman  Senate 
seemed  an  assembly  of  kings.     And  there  is  a  distinct 
greatness  in   the  consul's  announcement   to  the  people 
after  the  great  defeat  at  Lak.-  Trasimenus  at  the  hands 
of  Hannibal,  "Romans,  we  have  lost  a  great  battle;  our 
army  is  cut  to  pieces  and  Flaminius  the  consul  is  slain. 
Think,  therefore,  what  is  to  be  done  for  your  safety." 
One   expects  so   straightforward   a   proclamation   to   be 
worthily  answered.     A  people  who  can  hear  such  tidings 
— not   unmoved,   assuredly,   but   unterrified — can   surely 
deliberate  on    it  wisciy.     Our  sympathies  may  be  with 
Hannibal  in  that  struggle,  but  if  so  it  is  because  our  hearts 
go  oui  instinctively  to  a  brave  leader  fighting  so  gallant  a 
battle  against  a  giant  power,  not  because  the  better  cause 
did  not  win.     The  victory  of  Carthage  would  have  meant 
the  supremacy  of  a  Phoenician  state,  shrewd,  ingenious, 
skilled  in  commerce,  but  cruel,  hard,  intolerant,  with  a 
degrading  and  brutal  religion,  and  with  no  contribution  to 
the  Europe  of  the  future  but  a  pitiless  commercial  tyranny. 
No  Roman  general  was  produced  in  that  struggle  who  at 
all   equals   Hannibal    in   the  judgment  of  posterity.     It 


26 


Italian  Cities 


was  not  brilliant  generalship  that  foiled  his  best  efforts; 
it  was  stubborn  courage,  refusal  to  yield,  and  the  pouring 
forth  of  valiant  soldiers  and  steady,  proud,  resourceful 
commanders  that  wore  him  out. 

Indeed  it  is  a  curious  and  significant  thing  that  during 
the  whole  rise  of  Rome  to  supremacy  we  are  not  greatly 
impressed  by  any  single  man,  none  to  compare  with  this 
one  enemy,  Hannibal,  in  picturesqueness,  gallantry,  bold- 
ness of  enterprise,  and  all-round  genius.  Back  in  the 
more  legendary  days  there  are  some  figures  who  stand 
immortalized  by  one  deed  as  peculiarly  Roman  types — 
Brutus  and  Coriolanus,  Horatius,  who  kept  the  bridge, 
Virginius,  Camillus,  the  conqueror  of  Veii  and  of  the 
Gauls,  Cincinnatus,  and  a  few  others;  but  during  the. 
long   stru.  for   democracy   and    the   achievement   of 

Mediterraiivan  supremacy,  no  one  man  rose  to  more  than 
a  tolerable  or  a  momentary  height.  Many  brave  and  wise 
leaders  there  were,'  but  none  of  pre-eminent  boldness  or 
genius.  This  remains  true  in  the  second  century, 
through  the  conquests  of  Macedonia,  Greece,  and  Syria, 
until  we  reach  a  strikingly  important  year,  the  fateful  year 
133  B.C.  In  that  year  the  conquest  of  Spain  was  com- 
pleted by  the  fall  of  Numantia.  In  that  year  the  kingdom 
of  Pergamus  in  Asia  Minor  was  bequeathed  to  Rome  and 
accepted  by  her — her  first  province  in  Asia.  And  in  that 
year  Tiberius  Gracchus  was  Tribune  of  the  Plebs. 

'  To  really  get  at  a  conception  of  what  was  meant  in  the  second  and  third 
centuries  by  a  good  Roman,  one  might  read  Plutarch's  "jKmilius  Paulus." 
Or  take  this  httle  bit  from  his  -Cato"; 
..     "As  soon  as  the  dawn  of  understanding  appeared,  Cato  took  upon  himself 

the  oftice  of  schpolmaster  to  his  son He  taught  him  not  only  how  to 

tbrowa  dart,  tohght  hand  to  hand,  and  to  ride,  but  to  box,  to  endure  heat  and 
cold,  and  to  swim  in  the  roughest  and  most  rapid  parts  of  the  river.  He  wrote 
histories  for  him,  he  further  acquaints  us,  with  his  own  hand,  in  large  char- 
acters, so  that  without  stirring  out  of  his  father's  house  he  might  gain  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  illustrious  actions  o!  the  ancient  Romans,  and  of  the  customs  of  bis 
country. 


\222.*Be"v^-    j^-^^tx^enrTviec ^ESfrt/Rrjsflsaw'iniM*'  w«i  m,M^w^.  ^mi 


"■'•SC^ 


Ancient  Rome  27 

Up  to  this  year  one's  attention  is  absorbed  by  the 
marvelous  sweep  of  conquest.     It    is  easy  at   the  first 
glance  to  lose  track  of  the  internal  changes  of  the  same 
period  until  we  come  to  this  year  133,  and  find  one  of 
the  ablest  and  noblest  of  the  Romans  using  his  official 
position  as  spokesman  and   protector  of   the  people  to 
passionately  advocate  reform.     His  stern  warnings  are  of 
no  small  evils,  but  of  diseases  that  are  consuming  the  life- 
blood  of  the  Roman  people.     He  denounces  the  creation 
of  an  official  oligarchy,  the  destruction  of  the  middle  class 
by  the  enormous  wealth  of  the  Senators  and  their  fami- 
lies, the  destruction  of  the  working-classes  by  the  extension 
of  slavery,  the  increase  of  vice  and  cor-uption  with  the 
increase  of  power  and  wealth.     All  these,  he  cries,  must 
be  remedied  by  radical  surgery— the  great  estates  must  be 
cut  up,  the  power  restored  to  the  people.     But,  you  say, 
how  is  this?     Did  we  not  see  the  achievement  of  democ- 
racy two  hundred  years  before  the  tribunate  of  Tiberius 
Gracchus,— before  ever  the  career  of  conquest  was  fairly 
started.     Just  so,  but  one  of  the  most  interesting  features 
of  that  conquest  to  us  is  the  way  in  which  it  was  taken  by 
the  people  of  Rome.     They  had,  in  fact,  found  it  quite 
impossible  to  deal  in  full  assembly  with  the  intricate  prob- 
lems of  foreign  affairs,  provincial  government,  and  the 
conduct  of  wars.     The  Athenians  had  found  it  difficult, 
too,  in  the  fifth  century,  but  they  had  confidently  contin- 
ued the  attempt  without  fear  until  they  were  ruined.     The 
Roman,  on  the  other  hand,  had  too  great  an  instinct  for 
effectiveness,  too  little  interest  in  theoretical  equality  and 
individual  share  in  government  to  care  to  do  work  badly 
which  a  smaller  group  could  do  well.     There  was  a  little 
council  which  everybody  respected,  an  ancient  advisory 


'"^^ ^ F  =J»Wi?'  " •SKl V ""T^"^ 


'■-£.  J-i. 


28 


Italian  Cities 


and  judicial  body,  called  the  Senate  (senex,  old),  the 
Council  of  Elders.  It  was  not  elected  by  the  people,  but 
was  chosen  by  grave  and  wise  men,  the  censors,  who 
were;  and  it  was  the  custom  of  these  censors  in  trying  to 
select  the  wisest  men  in  Rome  .  choose  first  those  who 
had  held  responsible  offices.  You  could  therefore  rely  on 
finding  in  the  Senate  every  ex-consul  and  ex-pr?etor  in 
Rome,  every  general  and  statesman  of  approved  experi- 
ence and  wisdom.  What  body  could  be  better  fitted  to 
advise  the  people? 

It  is  without  doubt  one  of  the  most  instructive  and 
interesting  lessons  in  the  whole  field  of  constitutional 
study  to  watch  the  slow  change  of  the  Senate  from  an 
advisory  council  to  the  sovereign  ruler  of  the  Romnn 
dominions.  The  people  were  willing  enough.  They  saw 
that  the  work  was  done  well.  They  reaped  the  fruit  in 
splendid  shows,  in  freedom  from  taxation,  in  frequent 
free  donations  of  corn,  and  in  the  pride  of  being  Romans, 
rulers  of  the  world.  The  energy  of  the  more  restless  and 
ambitious  was  easily  trmed  into  war  or  even  politics,  for 
n  the  Senate  was  a  virtual  oligarchy,  and  a  conservative 
one,  it  was  never  too  exclusive.  It  is  true,  the  Senators 
kept  the  prizes  of  politics  and  war  in  their  own  families  if 
possible.  The  son  of  a  consul  was  always  preferred  tr  a 
new  man.  In  some  families— just  as  with  the  Russells, 
the  Cavendishes,  the  Cecils  in  England — a  political  career 
was  considered  the  obvious  one,  and  the  consulship  the 
natural  and  simple  goal  of  ambition.  But  if  an  outsider 
wished  to  take  part  in  the  glory  and  labor  of  governing,  he 
had  only  to  show  his  ability  and  energy  to  rank  in  time 
with  the  best  of  them.  Cicero  was  a  new  man,  yet  once 
when  he  was  exiled  the  Senators  wore  mourning  until  he 


Ancient  Rome 


29 


was  recalled.  But  the  fact  remained  that  power  centered 
more  and  more  in  the  senatorial  class,  and  the  people  as 
a  whole,  content  to  follow  their  leaders,  lost  bit  by  bit 
both  instinct  and  desire  for  self-government.  So  the 
wealth  of  the  world  poured  in  to  pauperize  them,  slaves 
came  by  thousands  from  captured  cities  to  do  the  work 
of  Italy  and  degrade  labor,  and  R  ime  definitely  became 
an  oligarchy,  built  on  slavery  and  maintained  through  the 
degradation  of  the  people. 

It  was  against  this  tendency  of  the  times  that  Tiberius 
Gracchus  hurled  hin.Jf.     But  while  he  carried  his  laws 
he  made  <nemies,  naturally,  of  the  most  po-     .     '  men  in 
Rome,  ana  he  had  no  sooner  laid  down  his  o:U     than  he 
was   murdered,   deserted   by   the   fickle    populace.     His 
brother  took  up  the  battle  ten  years  later,  carried  all 
before  him  for  a  time,  and  backed  by  momentary  popular- 
ity  checked  the  enraged  Senate  for  two  years      But  then 
he  too  lost  his  grip,  and  was  murdered.     Things  went 
now  from  had  to  worse  for  the  next  fifteen  years.     The 
Senate  was  becoming  morally  as  degenerate  and  unworthy 
as  the  degraded  populace.     The  affairs  of  Rome  looked 
gloomy  indeed   as   this  second   century  before   our  era 
neared  its  close.     Rome's  enemies  could  buy  her  rulers 
as  Philip  had  bought  the  Greeks  two  centuries  before. 
And  the  Gracchi  had  set  a  dangerous  and  significant  ex- 
ample.   .They  had  failed  simply  because  when  the  fickle, 
ill-organized  force  of  the  people  fell  away  from  them,  they 
had  nothing  to  oppose  to   the  disciplined,   experienced 
ranks  of  the  Senate.     Suppose  then  a  man  should  arise 
who  should  possess  the  votes  of  the  people  and  an  army 
too. 

Only  a  few  years  before  the  close  of  the  second  cen- 


30 


Italian  Cities 


tury  arose  a  soldier  of  the  people  named  Marius.     A  war 
that  the  corrupt  Senate  had  been  dragging  out  for  years 
with  the  Numidian  king,  Jugurtha,  Marius  settled  sternly 
and   permanently  in  one  campaign.     A  terrible  danger 
threatened  from  the  north.     Hordes  of  barbarians,  huge, 
fierce,  and  savage,  were  descending  from  the  Alps,  from 
the  mountains  and  forests  of  Germany,  upon  the  fertile 
plains  of  Gaul  and  Italy.     Consuls  and  armies  who  sought 
to  check  them  were  cut  to  pieces.     Marius  was  looked  to 
as  the  only  hope  of  Rome.     Two  years  he  took  to  train 
his  army,  the  people  maintaining  him  in  the  consulship  in 
spite  of  the  Senate,  and  then  in  two  great  battles  he  fell 
upon  the  barbarians  and  annihilated  them.     Seven  times 
was  Marius  consul.     The  old  weapons  of  the  Senate  were 
powerless  against  such  a  man.     They  needed  a  champion, 
and  there  arose  Sulla.     Sulla  had  been  a  lieutenant  of 
Marius  in  his  wars,  was  a  brilliant  soldier,  and  an  aristo- 
crat.    So  these  two  locked  in  mortal  conflict.     For  the 
first  twenty  years  of  the  last  century  before  Christ  the 
figures  of  Marius  and  Sulla  almost  fill  the  canvas.     The 
destinies  of  Rome  seem  to  be  in  the  hands  of  two  men, 
and  the  old  system  is  breaking  up  no  matter  who  wins. 
Marius  may  nominally  represent  the  popular  cause  and 
Sulla  the  senatorial,  but  actually  each  is  fighting  for  his 
own  hand.     Each  by  turn  leads  armies  against  Rome  and 
holds  tyranny  there.     The  name  of  liberty  is  become  a 
laughing-stock  and  a  mockery.      The  evil  is  too  deep- 
rooted  to  be  cured  even  by  the  death  of  both  rivals. 
Marius  leaves  behind  him  a  young  kinsman,  Julius  Ctesar 
— Sulla  a  trusted  lieutenant,  Pompey.     As  Pompey,  the 
older  of  the  two,  rises  to  greatness,  he  seems  to  preserve 
loyalty  to  the  Senate,  and  there  is  even  friendship  between 


Ancient  Rome 


31 


i 


him  and  C<Esar.  But  at  last  the  poor  pretense  is  cast 
aside.  The  rift  comes  between  them.  Pompey,  nomi- 
nally chief  of  the  senatorial  party,  and  Caesar,  nominally 
successor  to  Marius,  fly  at  each  other's  throats,  and 
Caesar's  victory  leaves  him  master  of  the  world.  The 
wars  and  the  Empire  had  killed  the  democracy  and  created 
the  rule  of  the  Senate;  corruption  and  pride  of  place  had 
ruined  the  Senate;  and  there  remained  nothing  but  indi- 
vidual leadership.  The  Empire  was  the  natural  and  legiti- 
mate fruit  of  the  last  two  hundred  years  of  the  republic. 
Liberty  in  Rome  was  dead  from  inanition  long  before 
Caesar's  dictatorship. 

From  some  points  of  view  many  have  regarded  the 
ancient  spirit  of  Rome  as  dead  with  the  end  of  the  repub- 
lic. Brutus  has  had  admirers  in  every  age,  and  his  failure, 
it  has  been  thought,  meant  death  to  Rome.  The  Empire 
in  this  view  of  it  galvanized  a  corpse.'  And  of  course  this 
is  not  wholly  without  basis.  Loss  of  freedom  is  a  great 
loss,  and  if  real  liberty  was  dead  in  Rome  before  Caesar, 
yet  the  Empire  did  in  a  measure  close  off  all  prospect  of 
further  constitutional  adjustment  to  growing  needs.  But 
it  must  be  remembered  that  liberty  was  never  the  essen- 
tial thing  to  the  Roman  that  it  had  been  to  the  Greek. 
His  principles  were  law,  obedience,  order,  rather  than 
equality  and  freedom,  and  these  cardinal  Roman  ideals 
were  sufficiently  satisfied  under  rulers  like  Augustus, 
Trajan,  and  Marcus  Aurelius.  We  see  little  sign,  indeed, 
of  satiety,  decadence,  or  wearing  out  in  the  life  of  that 
Rome  of  the  early  Empire,  and  even  our  judgment  of  the 

"One's  views  of  Brutus  cannot  but  be  influenced  bv  Shalcespeare,  but  one 
should  separate  quite  distinctly  in  ones  thinking  the  Shakespearian  from  the 
historical  personaRe.  Shakespeare's  portrait  is  much  too  flattering.  Read  on 
this  period  Strachan-Davidsons  "Cicero"  and  Fowler's  "C*sar.'  Froude's 
'  CsEsar    remains  worth  while,  but  is  less  reliable  than  these 


wm¥. 


32 


Italian  Cities 


last  terrible  century  of  the  republic  is  softened  a  little  by 
such  words  as  these  of  Cicero: 

"And  if  our  country  has  our  love,  as  it  ought  to  have  in  the 
highest  degree— our  country,  I  say,  of  which  the  force  and  natural 
attraction  is  so  strong,  that  one  of  the  wisest  of  mankind  preferred 
his  Ithaca,  fixed  like  a  little  nest  among  the  roughest  of  rocks,  to 
immortality  itself,— with  what  affection  should  we  be  warmed 
toward  such  a  country  as  ours,  which  pre-eminently  above  all 
other  countries  is  the  seat  of  virtue,  empire,  and  dignity?  Its 
spirit,  customs,  and  discipline  ought  to  be  our  first  object  of  study, 
both  because  our  country  is  the  parent  of  us  all,  and  because  as 
much  wisdom  must  be  thought  to  have  been  employed  in  the 
framing  of  such  laws,  as  to  establish  so  vast  and  powerful  an 
empire." ' 

Just  so,  Virgil's  proud  announcement  of  the  spirit  and 
mission  of  Rome  h?.s  as  true  and  strong  a  ring  to  it  as  if 
it  had  been  written  in  the  days  of  the  Scipios; 

"Others,  indeed,  may  summon  fairest  forms 
From  marble  or  dull  bronze— may  plead  their  cause 
With  greater  eloquence— may  map  the  heavens; 
But  ye,  my  Romans,  with  imperial  sway 
Do  ye  control  the  nations  I    Be  it  yours 
To  impose  the  rule  of  peace  on  vanquished  foes, 
Pity  the  lowly,  and  dash  down  the  proud." ' 

To  pity  the  vanquished  was  for  Rome  too  rare,  alas! 
But  to  crush  the  mighty,  to  maintain  peace  within  her 
measureless  borders,  to  rule  the  known  civilized  world 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Euphrates,  and  from  the  Sahara 
to  the  North  Sea,  to  hold  back  the  flood  of  barbarism  that 
surged  restlessly  against  the  barrier  fortresses  along  the 
Rhine  and  the  Danube,— this  was  the  task  of  Imperial 

'  Cicero,  "  De  Oratore,"  Book  1. 
2",«:neid,"BookIX. 


f'  zir'<Ar""'vri>"-.k.r;.u:w*=L''irMi=.ft'  ■v-,ifr. -'t^-  k^-^sm*?? 


ausr'T? 


Ancient  Rome 


33 


^ 


Rome  for  age  after  age.  Caesar  succeeded  Csesar,  sages 
and  madmen,  saints  and  brutes,  soldiers  and  philosophers, 
and  still  Rome  was  mistress  of  the  world.  Christian- 
ity—founded in  the  reign  of  the  first  emperor— rose  un- 
til it  supplanted  paganism;  poetry,  philosophy,  and  art 
waned,'  old  ideals  of  culture  faded,  east  and  west  drifted 
apart  once  more,  and  yet  if  a  rival  to  the  city  on  the 
Tiber  arose  on  the  Bosphorus,  the  ruler  of  both  was 
Caesar  and  Augustus,  and  Rome  gave  the  pride  of  her 
name  to  the  Empire  still.  Then  the  Goths  came.  The 
unconquered  walls  were  pierced  by  an  enemy  and  a 
barbarian.  The  barrier  of  the  Rhine  broke  and  the  Ger- 
man flood  swept  over  Europe.  The  Roman  Peace  uecame 
a  memory.  The  Empire,  having  endured  nearly  five  cen- 
turies since  Julius,  was  at  last  in  western  Europe  the 
shadow  of  a  great  name. 

To  the  ages  that  were  to  follow,  Rome  chiefly  be- 
queathed four  things,— an  example  of  a  highly  centralized 
government,   a  consummate  system  of  law,   a  body  of 
literature  which  luminously  set  forth  the  deeds  and  ideals 
of  classical  times,  and  Latin  Christianity.     The  first  was 
to  be  obscured,  but  never  forgotten,  diring  the  trying 
ti  -^  i  of  the  early  Middle  Ages.     The  second  was  also  to 
ust  aside  in  a  measure  by  the  barbarians;  but  never 
i  year  or  a  day  was  Europe  wholly  without  the  guid- 
_,  nfluence  of  the  Roman  law,  and  before  many  centuries 
it  was  triumphantly  revived  by  Italian  doctors  to  be  made 
all-powerful   in  the  courts  of   Europe.     The  third  was 
almost  wholly  forgotten  for  centuries,     Virgil,  no  longer 
a  poet,  was  spoken  of  darkly  as  a  wizard.     The  knowl- 


nf  fhJw.*  ■"««'. "loughtful  and  interestine  account  o(  the  culture  and  thou? 


..  ■  ■  rtff^v  'f-VKP-TTSSb  •■Zr'^WL!^'  tflt«K  «<f^' 


34 


Italian  Cities 


edge  of  Greek  died  utterly  away,  and  with  the  disappear- 
ance of  Homer,  Virgil,  Horace,  and  much  of  Cicero, 
vanished  all  inner  understanding  of  the  great  civilizations 
of  which  they  were  interpreters.  But  in  the  fulness  of 
time  came  Petrarch,  and  it  even  came  to  be  that  no  writer 
believed  that  his  works  would  be  immortal  were  they  writ- 
ten in  other  than  the  Latin  tongue  or  modeled  on  any 
master  but  Cicero.  The  fourth  great  bequest  of  Rome 
had  not  to  wait  nine  centuries  for  its  full  appreciation. 
Christianity  as  interpreted  and  taught  by  the  Bishop  of 
Rome  and  his  co-workers  became,  as  Rome's  temporal 
power  passed  away,  the  most  potent  single  fact  in  the 
western  world. 

Christianity  has  often  been  referred  to  as  the  most 
powerful  dissolving  force  within  the  Roman  Empire— a 
force  that  directly  contributed  to  its  destruction.     Perhaps 
it  was.     But  it  is  more  profitable  perhaps  to  look  upon  it 
as  a  new  and  vigorous  life  growing  within  the  old,  decay- 
ing organism,  destined  in  its  institutional  form  to  carry  on 
the  functions  and  the  genius  of  the  dying  empire.     For  the 
first  three  centuries  of  our  era  the  Church,  growing  and 
spreading  as  it  undoubtedly  was,  was  viewed  with  sus- 
picion by  the  Court  and  with  contempt  by  the  learned. 
Yet  even  then  there  were  not  wanting  powerful  forces 
that  made  for  lighteousne   ., — forces  which  v/ere  in  time 
practically  to  hand  over  their  functicus  to  the  conquering 
religion  of  Christ.     Stoicism  was  able  to  produce  Epic- 
tetus  and  Marcus  Aurelius,  noble  fruit  surely  of  a  noble 
if  inadequate  philosophy.     And  if  the  Platonists  too  often 
lost  themselves  in  empty  visions,  if  they  too  completely 
accepted  the  saying  of  Anaxagoras,  that  his  mission  was 
"to  contemplate  the  sun,  the  stars,  and  the  course  of 


^ms^.i'rmn.^n^t'r':^ 


t^\  :mF.:^:*-mmii!S3m3m^^- 


Ancient  Rome 


3S 


nature,  and  that  thi;  contemplation  was  wisdom,"  yet 
they  based  their  thinking  and  their  living  on  principles 
that  were  sound  and  eternal  as  far  as  they  went.  They 
were  not  all  lost  in  vain  contemplation.  "What  use," 
said  Maximus  of  Tyr,  "is  there  in  knowledge  unless  we 
do  those  things  for  which  knowledge  is  profitable?  What 
use  is  there  in  the  skill  of  the  physician  unless  by  that  skill 
he  heals  the  sick,  or  in  the  art  of  Phidias  unless  he  chisels 

the  ivory  or  the  gold Hercules  was  a  wise  man, 

but  not  for  himself,  but  that  by  his  wisdom  he  might 

diffuse  benefits  over  every  land  and  sea Had  he 

preferred  to  lead  a  life  apart  from  men,  and  to  follow  an 
idle  wisdom,  Hercules  would  indeed  have  been  a  Sophist, 
and  no  one  would  call  him  the  son  of  Zeus.  For  God 
himself  is  never  idle;  were  he  to  rest,  the  sky  would  cease 
to  move  and  the  earth  to  produce,  and  the  rivers  to  flow 
into  the  ocean,  and  the  seasons  to  pursue  their  appointed 
course."' 

Bravely  indeed  did  the  philosophers  seek  to  stem  the 
flood  of  evil  and  to  teach  mankind  the  secret  of  their  own 
goodness.     But  the  message  of  Stoics  or  Platonists  was 
for  the  few.     Most  men  could  not  understand  their  mys- 
teries, and  even  of  those  who  understood,  few,  alas,  had 
the  pure  heart  and  the  high  ideals  of  Socrates  and  Marcus 
Aurelius.     Some  more  potent  sanction  than  duty,  some 
more  intelligible  basis  of  right  conduct  than  philosophy, 
was  needed  and  was  found  in  Christianity.     This  religion 
of  humanity  which  the  philosophers  had  failed  to  find   this 
simple  gospel  preached  by  a  Jew  to  Athenians  and  Romans 
became  at  last  the  guide  of  the  Caesars.     Obedience  to 
the  laws  of  God  for  the  sake    ^  a  human,  loving  Christ, 

'  Leckv.  ••  History  o(  European  Morals/  Vol.  1.,  Chap.  a. 


36 


Italian  Cities 


such  obedience  to  be  rewarded  by  eternal  bliss—  this  was 
the  simple  basis  of  the  new  faith.     Simple,  direct,  lofty 
in  its  moral  precepts,  sanctioned  by  th"  inspiring  person- 
ality of  Christ  and  the  hope  of  immortality,  the  new  reli- 
gion had  all  the  qualifications  essential  to  success.     Its 
organization  soon  took  on  all  the  perfection,  the  elasticity, 
the  ideal  adaptability,  which  were  to  make  the  Catholic 
Church  the  fit  inheritor  of  Roman  power  and  prestige. 
All  the  vigorous  life  of  the  later  empire  seems  concen- 
trated in  the  Church.     The  greatest  Roman  of  the  early 
fifth   century  was   not    an  emperor   but   a   bishop,   not 
Honorius  but  Augustine,  and  during  age  after  age  that 
followed  the  Italy  that  had  given  the  world  CiEsar,  Trajan, 
and  the  Antonines,  brought  forth  as  their  successors  Leo,' 
Benedict,  Gregory  the  Great,  and  Hildebrand.     So  it  was 
that  Rome  still  sent  forth  her  ambassadors  to  Africa  and 
to  distant  Britain,  even  though  the  Palatine  had  given 
place  to  the  Lateran,  and  Caesar's  scepter  was  wielded 
by  St.  Peter. 

But  ancient  Rome  was  gone.  Gregory  and  Pliny 
belonged  to  different  worlds.  Even  though  the  walls  and 
the  temples  of  the  old  city  still  stood  intact,  the  glory  was 
departed  from  Palatine  and  Forum,  and  Jerome's  lament 
for  the  fall  of  Rome  had  a  truth  beyond  his  own  vision. 
"Who  could  believe,"  he  cries,  "that  Rome,  built  upon 
the  conquest  of  the  whole  world,  would  fall  to  the  ground? 
that  the  mother  herself  would  become  the  tomb  of  her 
peopes?  that  all  the  regions  of  the  East,  of  Africa  and 
Egypt,  once  ruled  by  the  queenly  city,  would  be  filled  with 
troops  of  slaves  and  handmaidens?"  The  curtain  had 
indeed  fallen  on  a  great  dr^ma.  yet  rather  on  an  act  in  the 
drama  of  Europe,  for  in  the  scenes  to  come  there  will 


Ancient  Rome 


37 


reappear  the  heroes  of  the  scenes  that  are  past-Caesars 
and  bishops  of  Rome,  with  new  incidents,  new  motives, 
and  some  new  masks,  but  with  the  passions,  the  memories, 
the  behefs,  the  ideas  of  the  former  age  running  on  with- 
out  a  break  The  king  is  dead!  Long  live  the  kingt 
Rome  IS  fallen!  Rome  is  eternal/  The  curtain  is  fallen 
on  Senate  and  Forum.  It  rises  on  swinging  censers  and 
mitered  heads. 


■i.tv-.    ■i-' 


CHAPTER   III 

ASSISI  AND  THE  ITALY  OF  ST.  FRANCIS 

As  you  walk  through  the  narrow  streets  of  an  old 
Italian  city,  especially  of  those  hill-towns  that  are  some- 
what off  the  line  of  modem  travel  and  trade,  the  words 
most  often  on  your  lips,  perhaps,  are  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  meaning  of  the  phrase  is  a  little  vague.     You  only 
know  in  a  general  way  that  it  refers  to  a  period  that  was 
not  Roman  and  not  modern,  but  between  the  two,  a  period 
of  political  restlessness  and  confusion,  during  which  Greek 
and  Roman  culture  was  largely   forgotten   and   modem 
civilization  had  hardly  begun.     As  you  look  further  into 
the  matter  you  find  the  period  of  greatest  disorder  and 
intellectual  depression  extending  from  the  sixth  to  the 
ninth  century.     Indeed  you  find  it  hard  to  see  any  great 
change  for  the  better  dawning  en  Europe  until  the  stirring 
of  the  waters  that  came  in  the  twelfth  century.     Then  as 
you  feel  your  way  on  to  the  thirteenth,  you  find  new  influ- 
ences, new  emotions,  new  ways  of  looking  at  things  grow- 
ing stronger  and  more  widespread,  old  systems  and  old 
ideas  hardening  and  crystallizing  as  is  their  wont  before 
they  pass  away.     It  is  the  century  of  St.  Francis,  St. 
Dominic,  Innocent  III.,  Thomas  Aquinas,  and  Louis  IX., 
"of  Philip  Augustus,  of  Magna  Charta,  and  of  Simon  de 
Montfort,  of  Dante,   Niccolo  Pisano,   Duccio  of  Siena, 
and  Giotto.     And  as  you  pass  on  you  find  the  new  stream 
of  life  growing  and  becoming  ever  more  forceful  until  the 
world  becomes  consc  ious  of  the  change,  calls  it  the  Renais- 

38 


,  .T -M^iK"  t"'.!KS  -  "  /M"  »gi%!r 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         39 

sance.  and  talks  of  the  Middle  Age  as  a  dark  time  that  is 
past. 

Yet  as  we  shall  see  later,  it  was  not  wholly  a  dark 
t.me.     The  coming  of  f].e  barbarians,  the  decay  of  learn- 
ing, the  political  confusion,  did  make  it  an  age  of  ignor- 
ance,  an  age  during  which  the  refinements  of  an  advanced 
c.v.hzation,  the  taste  for  art,  aptitude  for  broad  and  clear 
and  serene  thinking  tended  greatly  to  diminish,  and  cul- 
ture  m  the  Greek  sense  and  in  ours  to  practically  disap- 
pear     But  it  was  not  at  all  an  age  of  stagnation.     Men's 
mtellects  were  as  keen  and  active  as  ever,  and  the  life  of 
the  penod  was  not  only  active,  but  fruitful.     To  expect 
peace  and  culture  would  be  to  expect  the  impossible.     For 
as  Rome's  power  in  the  west  declined  and  disappeared  the 
Roman  peace  passed  away  too.    All  through  the  fifth  and 
sixth  centuries  the  vandals  in  southern  Spain  and  North 
Afnca,  the  Visigoths  in  northern  Spain,  the  Burgundians 
m  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  the  Angles,  Saxons,  and  Jutes 
in  Bntam   the  Franks  in  France,  Goths  and  Lombards  in 
Italy  Itself  marched  in.  destroyed,  robbed,  stared  in  rude 
amazement  at  the  proud  civilization  they  had  conquered 
settled  down  and  ruled.     No  wonder  that  all  lovers  of 
peace  and  order  were  in  despair.     "Nations  innumerable 
and  savage,"  lamented  St.  Jerome,   "have   invaded  all 
Gaul.     The   whole    region   between    the   Alps   and   the 
Pyrenees   the  ocean  and  the  Rhine,  has  been  devastated 
by  the  Quad,,  the  Vandals,  the  Sarmati.  the  Alani,  the 
Gep.d^.  the  hostile  Heruli.  the  Saxons,  the  Burgundians.f 
the  Alemanni.  and  the  Pannonians.     O  wretched  empire! 
Mayence,  formerly  so  noble  a  city,  has  been  taken  and 
ruined,  and  ni  the  Church  many  thousands  of  men  have 
been  massacred Aquitaine  and  the  provinces  of 


vtr^^mssiTman^mic:  "^w^^^-'x,. 


40 


Italian  Cities 


Lyons  and  Narbonne,  all  save  a  few  towns,  have  been 
depopulated;  and  these  the  sword  threatens  without  while 
hunger  ravages  within.  I  cannot  speak  without  tears  of 
Toulouse,  which  the  merits  of  the  holy  Bishop  Exuperius 
have  prevailed  so  far  to  save  from  destruction.  Spain, 
even,  is  in  daily  terror  lest  it  perish,  remembering  the 
invasion  of  the  Cimbri;  and  whatsoever  the  other  prov- 
inces have  suffered  once,  they  continue  to  suffer  in  their 
fear.  I  will  keep  silence  concerning  the  rest,  lest  I  seem 
to  despair  of  the  mercy  of  God."  • 

The  worst  edge  of  the  conquest  was  taken  off  in  all 
the  provinces  but  Britain,  by  the  influence  of  the  Church. 
The  barbarians  were  eariy  converted  to  the  faith  of  the 
Roman  provincials,  and  the  fact  of  a  common  religion— 
with   the   gentler  precepts   of  Christianity— curbed   the 
savage  instincts  of  the  conquerors  and  provided  the  con- 
quered both  with  sacred  places  of  sanctuary  and  with  the 
Church's  powerful  mediation."     But  even  so,   with  the 
old    ruling    power    gone    forever— the    new    rulers    of 
the  West  ignorant  savages  who  were  yet  the  hope  of 
the  future— you  are  bound  to  face  a  period  of  confusion, 
of  painful  friction,  and  disturbance,  of  g  eat  trial   and 
distress,  of  great  obscuring  of  the  arts  and  ideals  which 
flourish  in  a  quieter,  more  stable  age.     And  yet  it  is  not 
to  be  called  lost  time— an  age  of  darkness  and  stagnation. 
The  years  during  which  a  great  man  is  gathering  the 
material,  living  the  life,  going  through  the  trials  and 
struggles  which  are  to  make  a  monumental  work  possible, 
are  surely  not  to  be  counted  wasted  because  the  world 

•  Robinson,  "Readings  in  European  History,"  Vol.  1.,  p.  44. 

m«r!^r^*'°r""'''L*''l.'^i"'^*^"''"°*"  histoHes  of  Duruy  and  Emerton  the 
S^^  \v/s?Prn  r?"f  ^l  Pf9''-'ssor  Ferguson,  and  Robinson's  admiFabIc '•  Hfs'tAry 
otWesternCivitization    and  "Readings  in  European  History."  "'"-ry 


w-:**-^.': 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         41 

only  sees  the  brilliant  consummation.     Europe's  Middle 
Age  was  an  age  of  adjustment,  of  assimilation.     The 
genius  of  Greece  and  of  Rome  was  giving  way  to  the 
Teutons.     For  one  reason  or  another  both  Greece  and 
Rome,  with  all  their  enormous  contributions  to  the  worid, 
had  failed  to  bring  forth  such  a  union  of  intellectual,' 
moral,  esthetic,  social,  and  political  strength  as  would 
have  continued  self-renewing  vitality  and  live   forever. 
So  now  the  barbarians  had  entered   the   field,    and  in 
the  nature  of  things,  a  process  of  education,  education 
by  teachmg  and  experience,  had  to  begin  whereby  these 
new  rulers  of  the  West  should  be  brought  up  to  the  needed 
level.     In  a  certain  sense  Europe  had  to  stop  progress, 
to  start  at  the  beginning  with  these  new  pupils,  train  them 
bit  by  bit  for  a  thousand  years.'  until  at  last,  the  long 
rest  over,  the  West  seized  once  more  the  genius  of  Greece 
and   Rome,  broadened  and  humanized   the  heritage  of 
antiquity,   added  to  it  the  energy,   the  joyousness,   the 
vitality,  and  the  romantic  spirit  of  the  Germanic  races 
and  leaped  forward  to  achievements  of  which  the  Athe' 
Mians  and   the  Romans  themselves  had  never  dreamed 
The  leap   forward  is  the  Renaissance.     The  period  of 
training  and  assimilation  is  the  Middle  Age. 

Our  general  feeling  regarding  the  centuries  from  the 
fifth  to  the  thirteenth,  if  we  sum  up  our  impression  in  a 
broad  way,  is  that  here  is  a  on  the  one  hand  of  dis- 
couraged provincials,  and  on  the  other  of  wild,  untutored 
savage,  but  thoroughly  living,  Teutons-the  dominant  race 
as  regards  brute  strength.  With  these  fierce  newcomers 
civilization,  mainly  as  represented  and  organized  in  the 
Church,  is  conducting  a  desperate  battle.  It  is  an  age  of 
'  See  Robinsons  "Readings  in  European  History."  Chapters  HI  and  V. 


4i 


Italian  Cities 


restlessness,  ot   war,  of  instability,   of  doubtful   law,   in 
which  the  strong  lighter  is  of  necessity  nrominent,  so  it  is 
called  the  age  of  chivalry      The  disorders  of  the  time  make 
it  an  age  of  much    ni  cr>    md  ignorance.     But  it  is  an  age 
of  strong  faith,  .c      /  ,i  roic  struggle  for  the  suprei     cy 
of  truth  and  rigl;t  .,vr  t,      forces  of  brute  strength,  an 
age  in  which  the  ■'Tluirch  Mi  .tant,  summoning  to  its  aid  the 
whole  force  of  f  inarv.  ious  ',rga-ization,  the  devotion  of 
its  ministers,  thu  inyst.        is  power  that  it  claimed    .ver 
the  soul's  destin,   beyond   tlv  grave,  and  the  inevitable 
influence  of  the  constant  hold'.  ^  up  of  ideals  of  goodness 
and  justice,    grappled   with    the  forces   of   anarchy   and 
became    far   and    away    the    m^    t    impressive    and    most 
powerful  influence  in  medieval  i  urope. 

During  those  centuries  tht  Church  is  all-porvasive.  It 
does  not  always  win.  Gigantic  misdeeds,  desperate  mis- 
ery, and  degradation  exist  in  spite  of  it.  Tl-  corruption 
of  the  times  terribly  infects  the  very  ministry  of  the 
Church,  so  that  monasteries  and  cat  cdrals  become  dens 
of  thieves,  foul  with  evil  of  ever)-  de.-cripti.  And  yer 

not  only  does  her  effort  never  relax,  but  even  where  she 
fails  to  conquer  her  influence  i-  powerful  and  incessant  as 
an  upward-pulling  force."     But  ti.e  <   .ntest  was  a  terrible 

The  age  ot   "chivalrv"   proDt'rl\    fn'Is   into   ti.r  nntnrio.   hot,»    .„   .1, 
;n.":",h,"/'<l^' h"','."'","''  '^•■^•'•■'"«'    ^'■d--d  th,    word  ;      ,  "':  oL  in'r,     "  can' 
r.Pr.n.V.VVr  ''I'"?"  l"  ""^  "  »«"'"''lv  at  all.    In  later  ....dieval  and  n  odern 
literature  chivalrv  has  been  so  ideah/ed  that  it  bears  little  resemblance  to  .I>h 

"olHi.r"".   i'°1  '"  "'"  ■'  """  »"•"'»"*■■  "'   'he  eleventl,  or  thirteen  h  centuries 
Soldiers  »  II  always  vary  inhnitely  .IS  1,.  nobility  01  persona    character  and  ?i 
ZmV'\'A''  '"'t^'^"'  "^"'^ht.  but  li.    wori  whiU  we  trans  lafe"  knlSht 
He  w  ^t    f. 'i  'Trn,:  ''  ^"'  "'>-.""^;  '   'i     ordinary  Latin  word  for   'soX 

Pr^!^^fi'^^?„'°':,?,*:^H^'''A«^':  .chapters  5.  ,6.  and     •     For  ,1..  evil  that 


1"'!,':'^'*.  ."'«  ministry  of  the  Church  See  esDcciaJlv  oau 
lectual  ilk-  o!  ihc  mcaR,..,  a.u.ch  and  lor  medieval 


^'-Q.     For  tht 

are  generally  read 


Assisi  and  tht-  /taly  of  St.  Francis  u 

one.  and  many  o(  th  >  nohh.st  spints  of  the  Middle  A|.  -s 
longed  lor  release  i  om  kores  and  hundreds,  lo(  k- 

ing  upon  their  it,  l.viduul  labor  as  utterly  v  lin,  and  feel- 
ing  that  prayer  and  penanc  would  avail  r  -g  with  the 
Almighty  to  turn  away  his   vrat  i  from  humanit) ,  flc(.   to 


desert--^,  to  fo-ests,  t^  aves  >1 
apart  from  th  evils  u.  -he  w 
fastings  with  God.  And  ever 
n  St  think  thet,  ,  who  a-  pru 
in  their  monast(  es,  stay^ci  in 
as  prayed,  l-ok^d  upon  ri-aUi 


mt    ntajJis,  and  there, 
rested  m  prayer  and 
,er  ones,  as  we 


SL      St 

-or 


work!   to     rii--  rig^    ecus 
sorrov        Pleasun    was 
flesh       , ,   sn,      ,    f  thf 
horror.     Hell  iod   .^ai 
ff  •   the  souls  sif  n- -n  ' 
dene  t  that  only  God's 
an  ippart      success 
ful  mvste.         Con 
in  me',   tation,  ii 
that  those  uttei 


cjanized 

as  well 

The 

ale  of 

of  the 


>s,  or  ( 
*  toi 
rek 
was         ..  ..-field- 
•'■      iin.     Delight 
one,  lo  be  turned  fr  )m  with 
-^ere  terribly  real— reaching  out 
iu   a  might  and  a  horrible  confi- 
emal  strength  could  meet — with 
r  was  an  inscrutable  and  sorrow- 
as  only  to  be  sought  in  prayer, 
IS  o     teaven.     So  it  comes  about 
of  th     Middle  Ages  which  came 
from  the  inmost  d  .  ps  of  r  en's  souls,  and  which  have 
r  fore  .fruck  mc  .t  deeply  into  the  world's  heart  since, 
wvre  solen       varn    ^s  of  judgment  to  come  like  the  ''Die's 
ha    irfs  ii.      — 

"Thai  day  i     wrath,  that  dreadful  day 
W>^      hea,  en  and  earth  shall  pass  away," 


or  iweet  thou^ 
and  blessed  con^ 


.he  heaven  that  was  to  be  the  rest 
ion  of  the  just  after  their  earthly  toils, 


^•bcc  tbc  rcicrenceb  m  chapter  iV.  to  the  Irescoes  in  the  Campo  Santo  of 


44 


Italian  Cities 


like  the  hymn  of  Bernard  of  Cluny— still  after  so  many 
centuries  most  precious  to  us  in  its  English  form: 

"Jerusalem  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest, 
Beneath  thy  contemplation 

Sink  heart  and  voice  oppressed, 
I  know  not,  oh  I  know  not 

What  joys  await  us  there. 
What  radiancy  of  glory, 

What  bliss  beyond  compare. 

There  is  the  throne  of  David; 

And  there,  from  care  released. 
The  shout  of  them  that  triumph, 

The  song  of  them  that  feast; 
And  they  who  with  their  leader 

Have  conquered  in  the  fight 
Forever  and  forever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white." 

It  is  the  longing  of  the  weary  and  wounded  soldier 
for  peace,  of  the  wanderer  for  home,  of  the  just  man 
gazing  indignantly  at  misery  and  wrong  for  the  punish- 
ment of  evil-doers  and  the  comfort  of  the  oppressed. 
The  judgment-seat  of  Christ,  the  life  beyond  the  grave, 
were  the  comfort  and  hope  of  those  dark  times.  And  so 
it  is  natural  enough  that  the  supreme  voice  of  medieval 
Europe  should  sing  of  Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise. 


In  the  pleasant  land  of  Umbria,  perched  high  on  the 
slope  of  a  mountain,  breeze-swept  and  sun-drenched, 
stands  the  old  city  of  Assisi.  And  here,  towards  the 
end  of  the  twelfth  century,  was  bom  a  man  who  lived 
more  nearly,  so  far  as  we  can  tell,  after  the  pattern  of 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         45 

Christ  himself  than  any  one  else  we  know  of  during  the 
last  two  thousand  years.  By  virtue,  too,  of  his  effort  to 
be  true,  to  be  simple,  and  to  live  out  the  precepts  of  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount,  he  not  only  fulfilled  the  best  ideals 
of  medieval  Christianity  and  won  the  reverence  of  his 
church,  but  sent  a  wave  of  new  life  into  his  own  and  suc- 
ceeding generations  which  formed  one  of  the  most  tre- 
mendous vitalizing  forces  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

Francis  Bernardone,"  son  of  a  wealthy  Assisan  mer- 
chant, grew  up  with  much  of  the  sunny  nature  of  south- 
eastern France,  the  land  of  his  mother.     Not  of  noble 
blood  himself,  he  was  yet  welcomed  to  the  best  circles  of 
Assisi.     His  father'?  money  made  possible  a  life  of  pleas- 
ure, and  though  there  is  no  reason  for  charging  him  in 
these   earlier  years   with   degrading   dissipation,   it  was 
undoubtedly  for  him  a  time  of  gayety  rathor  than  serious- 
ness, and  his  unconquerable  cheerfulness  and  gift  of  story 
and  song  made  him  one  of  the  best  loved  men  in  the  city. 
But  just  about  as  he  was  entering  his  twenty-first  year 
there  came  a  war  between  Assisi  and  the  neighboring  city 
of  Perugia.     Francis  fought  at  the  side  of  his  compan- 
ions, and  when  the  Assisans  were  defeated,  went  with 
them  to  a  Perugian  prison.     Here,  as  in  the  banquets  at 
home,  he  was  the  life  of  the  company,  and  yet  it  must 
have  been  a  hard  and  dreary  year  that  he  spent  in  Perugia, 
and  he  brought  home  with  him  the  seeds  of  a  long  illness.' 
So  with  disease  and  weakness  following  the  time  of  ira- 


46 


Julian  Cities 


i. 


prisonment  and  exile,  the  darker,  more  senous  side  of  life 
came  to  him  in  many  hours  of  sober,  lonely  thinking. 

A  certain  definite  consciousness  of  the  change  within 
him  came  one  day  during  his  convalescence,  as  with  slow 
step  he  walked  up  the  slope  of  a  stone-paved  street-the 
hard,  gray  walls  rising  straight  and  unbeautiful  on  either 
side-not  a  touch  of  softness  or  green  about  him-and 
passed   through    one  of   the   frowning    old    city   gates 
In   an  instant  the   hardness  and   dull    monotone  of  the 
city  street  gave  place  to  the    lovely  green    of  an   Um- 
brian   hillside.     Away  above  him  towered   the  gray  old 
castle.   La   Rocca.     Below  him  lay  the  exquisite  valley 
that  he  knew  so  well,  with  garden  and  farm,  meadow  and 
woodland,  the  rippling  silver  of  a  little  river  curving  its 
way  there  and  adding  its  message  of  soft  peace,  and  in 
the  distance  more  hills,  melting  off  in  gray-blue  haze. 
The  double  charm  of  nature's  fairest  aspect  and  the  asso- 
ciations of  home  might  surely  comfort  the  tired  heart  of 
Francis.     And  yet  no  comfort  came.     Every  quiver  of  a 
leaf,  every  odor  of  the  field,  every  call  of  a  bird  had  onc« 
brought  instant  response  within  him.     But  nothing  now 
seemed  vorth   while,   and   he   turned   back  to   the  city 
depressed  and  perplexed.     As  strength  returned,  his  old 
friends  sought  him  again,  but  he  was  quieter  and  more 
thoughtful  at  their  feasts  than  in  the  o!d  days,  and  if  now 
and  then  his  gayety  returned  for  a  moment,  or  if  warlike 
ardor  prompted  him  to  seek  the  splendor  and  danger  of  a 
knightly  career,  the  flame  died  quickly  down,  and  again  in 
quiet  meditation   he  would  continue  his  search    for  the 
source  of  lasting  joy.     Once  life  had  been  full  of  color 
and  pleasure  for  him.     Now  it  was  weary  and  unprofit- 
able.    But  instead  of  hurling  himself  for  consolation  into 


r;Ai'^^(«ii>M"9,*":i:*^ik.,:JB':"^'^'?i\?rF^ 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         47 

dissipation  and  excitement,  he  simply  went  his  way, 
neither  weepiiig  nor  singing,  earnestly  seeking  the  pearl 
of  great  price. 

This   very   earnestness    tended    more   and    more   to 
strengthen  his  relations  with  the  Church  and  deepen  his 
religious  feeling.     He  made  it  one  of  his  peculiar  tasks  to 
aid  with  his  own  hands  in  the  repair  of  such  broken  down 
and  neglected  churches  as  he  could  find  within  reach,  and 
would  often  hear  mass  and  worship  quietly  and  devoutly 
in  peaceful  little  out-of-the-way  places,  where  the  priest 
or  monk  was  accustomed  to  conduct  his  service  alone  or 
with  but  one  or  two  humble  worshipers.     Reverence  and 
deep  feeling  was  far  more  possible  in  these  nooks  than  in 
the  city  churches,  and  one  day,  as  Francis  prayed  before 
a  figure  of  his  crucified  Lord,  the  lips  of  Christ  seemed 
to  speak  to  him  and  give  him  comfort.     He  seemed  to 
feel  the  Saviour's  words  to  his  disciples— read  perfunc- 
torily enough  by  the  priest,  perhaps— burning  into  him  and 
printing  a  command  on  his  own  heart.     To  go  into  all  the 
world  and  preach  the  Gospel,  to  heal  the  sick  and  comfort 
the  distressed,  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his  Master, 
and  do  His  work,— these  things  suddenly  stood  clearly 
before  him  as  a  divine  commission.     In  joy  of  heart  he 
seized  on  the  message  from  heaven,  and  applied  Christ's 
words  to  his  disciples  directly  to  himself.     He  must  give 
himself  up  to  absolute  poverty  and  unwearied  work,  as 
Christ  himself  did— work  for  the  simple  and  direct  object 
of  doing  g-:H  to  humankind.     His  bride,  to  use  the  quaint 
parable  t    .;    -  ;  referred  to  so  often,  was  the  Lady  Pov- 
erty,  for  ;  .      juld  own  nothing,  and  his  living  from  day 
to  day  must  be  such  as  his  hands  could  bring  to  him  or 
loving  charity  could  give  him.     "Freely  ye  have  received. 


48 


Italian  Cities 


freely  give!"  No  fee  was  required  for  the  good  tidings 
brought  by  Christ;  none  would  be  asked  by  Francis. 
Only  alms  would  be  asked,  for  this  Christ  had  sanctioned. 
"Provide  neither  silver  nor  gold  nor  brass  in  your  purses, 
neither  scrip  nor  two  coats,  nor  shoes  nor  staff,  for  the 
laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire." 

At  once  the  divine  message  was  obeyed.     The  sunny 
heart,  the  lovab'e  personality,  the  gift  of  song,  the  spon- 
taneous  joy  in  the  life  of  nature— all  of  these  came  back 
when  Francis  gave  back  to  his  father  all  he  had  received 
from  him,  made  for  himself  a  little  hut  near  a  tiny  old 
chapel  down  in  the  vaiLy,  and  devoted  himself  to  his  new 
life.     His  ideals  were  perfectly  simple.     There  was  sure 
to  be  always  enough  sin  and  misery  :nd  suffering  to  keep 
him  busy.     To  help  those  who  needed  help,  to  own  noth- 
ing, and  so  have  no  earthly  cares,  to  accept  his  daily  bread 
and  nothing  more  from  those  who  received  the  blessing 
of  his  help  and  teaching  as  from  those  who  wished  to 
assist  him,   to  live  and  work  as  Christ  had   lived  and 
worked— these  simple  but  tremendous  principles  became 
the  basis   of  the  young  Assisan's   Hfe  and   loving  toil. 
Some  looked  on  with  mockery,  some  with  cynicism,  some 
with  grave  and  wistful  admiration.     But  there  could  not 
long  be  doubt  as  to  his  single-minded  devotion,  his  con- 
stancy, and  the  undoubted  good  that  he  did,  and  he  soon 
had  companions  to  share  his  ideals,  his  poverty,  and  his 
work.     No  care  of  the  wretched  was  too  repulsive  or  too 
wearisome  for  these  men.     To  go  into  the  foulest  dens, 
to  wash  and  anoint  the  sores  of  the  leper,  to  face  cold  and 
hunger  and  fatigue  for  the  Master's  sake,  to  bring  com- 
fort to  the  distressed,  consolation  to  the  sorrowing,  loving 
advice  to  the  sinner,  help  and  encouragement— these  were 


m^mf&:'\  u^mNsme^ 


■%r4^^.^..- 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         49 

the  care  of  the  little  band  of  brothers  whose  huts  arose  in 
a  group  about  the  oratory  of  Francis. 

To  tell  how  the  little  company  grew  into  an  order— 
the  Order  of  Friars  Minor  or  Little    Brothers— how  it 
obtained  the  patronage  of  bishops  and  the  sanction  of  a 
pope,  how  it  grew  beyond  the  control  of  its  founder  and 
became  one  of  the  greatest  religious  organizations  that 
Europe  had  ever  seen,  how  Francis  delegated  the  organi- 
zation and  discipline  of  the  order  to  others-distrusting 
himself  in  such  matters^and  how  at  last,  after  watching 
with  sadness  and  misgiving  the  pure  ideals  he  had  believed 
"1  becoming  clouded  by  earthly  aims  and  ambitions,  he 
died  and  was  canonized  by  Pope  Gregory  IX.-to  tell  all 
these  things  would  not.  perhaps,  be  to  tell  the  essential 
message  of  St.  Francis  af.er  all.     That  message  can  best 
be  told  in  his  deeds  and  words.     And  yet  it  is  perplexing 
to  know  what  deeds  and  words  are  peculiarly  character! 
istic      Not  those  relating   to   asceticism,   certainly,    for 
hardly  as  he  treated  himself,  severely  as  he  mortified  his 
flesh,  he  was  m  this  respect  only  carrying  out  the  ideals  of 
his  age.     Neither  were  his  work  and  sacrifices  for  others 
his  most  essential  characteristic,  though  they  werp  very 
nearly  so.     You  remember  how  soon  after  his  realization 
of  his  mission  he  met  a  leper,  diseased  and  filthy,  on  the 
highroad,  and  how,  in  disgust  and  horror,  he  turned  aside 
how  ,n  an   mstant  the  question  came  to  him,  "Would 
Christ   have    turned   away?     Am    I   worthier    than   my 
Master/"  and  how,  after  a  moment's  struggle,   he  ran 
after  the  leper,  tended  him,  and  washed  his  sores,  com- 
forting him  with  loving  words.     And  when  you  think  how 
this  spirit  became  his  habitual  one,  you  are  apt  to  say. 
Here  is  the  real  Francis,  the  comforter  of  the  poor  and 


.  ^'m^mwt^j&g^i^-'-'-  iT- 


50 


Italian  Cities 


needy."  And  you  are  far  from  being  entirely  wrong. 
Possibly  it  is  nearer  the  truth  to  say  that  even  philan- 
thropy and  care  for  others,  carried  out  with  a  different 
spirit,  would  have  been  unavailing  to  do  what  Francis  did; 
that  it  was  rather  his  spontaneous  joyousness,  his  oneness 
with  Christ,  that  gave  his  life  its  power  and  its  immortal- 
ity. The  good  he  did  was  done  with  joy.  His  sacrifices 
were  made  with  gladness  for  Christ '«^  sake. 

You  love  especially  to  dwell  upon  this  triumphant 
open-heartedness  of  Francis,  for  in  this  and  in  his  con- 
sciousness of  a  personal  contact  with  Christ  lay  his  gift  of 
vitality,  of  individualism  in  religious  life,  of  warmth  and 
joy  in  the  acceptance  of  the  message  of  the  Gospels. 
"Why  showest  thou,"  he  says  to  a  brother  who  bore  a 
sorrowful  countenance,  "why  showest  thou  outwardly  this 
dolour  and  sadness  on  account  of  thine  offenses?  Keep 
this  sadness  to  thyself  and  God  only,  and  pray  him  of  his 
mercy  that  he  forgive  thee  and  restore  to  thy  soul  the 
healthy  joyance  whereof  it  hath  been  deprived  as  a  punish- 
ment for  thy  sin.  But  before  me  and  others  be  heedful 
ever  to  have  cheerfulness,  for  it  becometh  not  a  servant 
of  God  before  his  brother  or  any  other  to  show  sadness 
and  a  troubled  countenance."  So  when  he  saw  some  of 
his  zealous  companions  torturing  their  bodies  unduly,  he 
was  able  to  see  quite  clearly  the  limitations  of  asceticism. 
"The  servant  of  God  in  eating  and  drinking  and  sleeping, 
and  supplying  the  other  necessities  of  the  body,  ought  to 
satisfy  this  body  with  discretion,  in  such  sort  as  that 
brother  body  shall  have  no  right  to  murmur,  saying,  'I 
cannot  stand  upright  and  attend  to  prayer  nor  be  cheerful 
in  tribulations  of  the  mind,  nor  work  other  good  works, 
for  that  thou  dost  not  satisfy  my  needs.'  "     In  this  spirit 


1B^'KU:.t 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         51 

he  reproved  a  brother  who  awoke  one  night  in  suffering 
and    fear   of    death    through    insufficient    nourishment. 
Brother  Leo— the   familiar  friend  of  Francis— tells  the 
story  quaintly  enough.     "Then  the  blessed  Francis  forth- 
with had  a  table  laid  out,  and,  as  a  man  full  of  charity 
and  discretion,  did  eat  with  him  (the  starving  one),  lest  he 
should  be  ashamed  to  eat  alone;  and  by  his  will  all  the 
other  brethren  did  eat  likewise.     For  that  brother  and  all 
the  rest  were  newly  converted  to  the  Lord,  and  did  afflict 
their  bodies  beyond  measure.     And  after  that  they  had 
eaten  together,  the  blessed  Francis  said  unto  the  rest  of 
the  brethren,  'My  best  beloved,  I  say  unto  you  that  each 
one  of  you  ought  to  pay  heed  unto  his  own  nature,  for, 
albeit  that  some  one  of  you  may  be  strong  enow  to  be  sus- 
tained by  less  food  than  other  some,  yet  it  is  my  will  that 
he  which  needeth  more  food  shall  not  be  bound  to  imitate 
that  other  herein,  but  paying  heed  to  his  own  nature  let 
him  allow  his  IxKiy  the  necessity  thereof,  in  such  sort  that 
he   may  be   enough    strong   to   serve   the   Spirit.     For 
whereas,  we  be  held  to  beware  of  superfluity  of  food,  the 
which  is  a  hindrance  both  to  the  body  and  the  soul,  so 
likewise  and  even  more  ought  we  to  beware  of  too  great 
abstinence,  seeing  that  the  Lord  willeth  mercy  and  not 
sacrifice.'  " 

This  sanity,  this  whole-hearted  attitude  to  life,  showed 
Itself  just  as  clearly— perhaps  to  us  even  more  delightfully 
— m  his  way  of  looking  at  the  d-imb  creatures  of  God 
animate  and  inanimate.  Birds  and  animals  were  to  him 
brothers  and  sisters.  So  were  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the 
elements,  the  planets,  evm  the  sun  and  moon.  There  are 
few  lovelier  incidents  in  the  life  of  any  saint  than  the  ser- 
mon to  the  birds  at  Bevagna.     And  we  may  add  to  this 


■m 


52 


Italian  Cities 


from  Brother  Leo's  jottings  little  touches  just  as  signifi- 
cant of  d  love  for  all  created  things  which  is  not  easily 
paralleled.     "Above  all  other  birds,"  says  Leo,  "did  he 
love  the  crested  lark,  and  he  would  say  of  her,  'Sister 
Lark  has  a  hood  like  the  religious,  and  an  humble  bird  is 
she,  for  she  gladly  goeth  by  the  way  to  find  her  a  few 
grains  of  corn,  and  so  she  findeth  them  even  among  the 
dung  she  taketh  them  therefrom  and  eateth  them.     When 
she  soareth  she  doth  praise  God  right  sweetly,  even  as  the 
good  religious  that  doth   look  down  on  earthly  things, 
whose  conversation  is  evermore  in  heaven,   and  whose 
interest  is  always  toward  the  praise  of  God.'     And  for 
that  he  did  perceive  these  similitudes  in  them,  he  did  most 
gladly  look  upon  them.     Therefore  it  pleased  the  Lord 
that  these  most  holy  birdies  should  show  some  token  of 
the  love  they  bore  unto  him,  in  the  hour  of  his  death. 
For  on  the  Saturday  evening  after  vespers  before  the  night 
wherein  he  passed  away  unto  the  Lord,  a  great  multitude 
of  larks  came  above  tiie  roof  of  the  house  wherein  he  lay, 
a  id  flying  a  little  way  off  did  make  a  wheel  after  the  man- 
n  ?r  of  a  circle  round  the  rooi,  and  by  their  sweet  singing 
did  seem  to  be  praising  the  Lord  along  with  him." 

The  gentle  saint  had  great  trouble  with  his  eyes— a 
trouble  which  ended  in  blindness.  It  was  considered 
necessary  to  cauterize  his  face,  ano  he  who  thought 
nothing  of  toil  or  sacrifice  or  exposure  felt  his  flesh 
shrink  from  the  fie>:y  pain  of  the  branding-iron.  So 
after  prayer  he  spoke  to  the  fire:  "Fire,  my  brother, 
noble  and  useful  amongst  other  creatures,  be  thou  gracious 
unt  J  me  in  this  hour,  seeing  that  of  old  have  I  loved  thee, 
and  yet  will  love  thee  for  the  love  of  Him  that  did  create 
thee.     Earnestly,  moreover,  do  I  pray  the  Creator  that 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         ^^ 

did  create  both  thee  and  me.  that  he  will  so  temper  thine 
heat  as  that  I  may  be  able  to  abide  it."     "And  when  he 
had  ended  his  prayer,"  says  Brother  Leo.  "he  did  sign 
the  fire  with  the  sign  of  the  cross.     But  we  that  were 
with  h,m  at  that  time  did  all  flee  away  for  pity  and  com- 
passion  toward  him.  and  only  the  leech  did  remain  with 
him.     But  when  the  cauteiy  was  made  we  returned  unto 
him,  who   said.    'O  feeble-hearted  and  of  little   faith 
wherefore  did  ye  flee?     In  truth  I  say  unto  you  that  I  feli 
neither  pain  nor  any  heat  of  the  fire.     Yea.  and  it  be  not 
now  well  seared,  let  him  again  sear  it  better!'     Nor  is  it 
a  marvel,  that  the  fire  and  other  creatures  were  at  times 
obedient  to  him.  for  as  we  that  were  with  him  have  full 
ofttimes  seen  he  had  so  great  affection  toward  them  and 
did  so  greatly  delight  in  them,  and  his  spirit  was  moved 
with  so  great  pity  and  compassion  for  them  that  he  would 
not  see  them  treated  unfairly,  and  he  would  so  talk  with 
them  with  gladness  both  inward  and  outward  as  if  they 
had  reason,  whence  by  occasion  whereof  he  was  ofttimes 
rapt  up  to  God." 

In  brief.  Francis  brought  back  religion  to  earth  and 
humanity,  idealized  and  beautiful.     He  made  the  name  of 
Christ  a  comfort  and  a  joy  instead  of  a  cold  theological 
conception,  real  and  terrible  enough  when  associated  with 
condemnation,  but  empty  of  love  and  pity.     It  was  not 
that  Francis  rejected  any  of  the  distinctive  medieval  reli- 
gious Ideas.     He  was  a  faithful  son  of  the  Church      He 
was  obedient  to  the  Pope.     He  was  suspicious  of  bodily 
pleasures.     He  scorned  the  pursuit  of  learning,  and  never 
dreamed  of  questioning  the  doctrines  of  the  Church      But 
the  colder,  sterner,  gloomier  side  of  medieval  Christianity 
Its  insistence  on  human  depravity,  its  steady  contemplal 


54 


Italian  Cities 


tion  of  i;e!l,  its  repression  of  natural  human  nature — from 
all  this  Francis  quite  unconsciously  led  a  revolt.  The 
world  was  beautiful  to  him,  and  the  love  of  Christ  made 
it  more  so.  Naturalness,  individualism,  love  of  humanity 
— these  were  after  all  to  be  the  basal  ideas  of  the  era  that 
was  coming.  The  inspiration  that  came  from  the  renewed 
study  of  the  ancient  civilizations  Francis  never  felt.  And 
yet  he  stands  out  as  clearly  as  Giotto  and  Dante  as  one 
who  brought  into  life  a  new  health,  a  new  soundness  of 
heart,  a  new  capacity  for  happiness,  and  a  personal  sense 
of  responsibility  to  God  which  heralds  forth  unmistakably 
the  positive  individualism  of  the  Renaissance. 

As  you  look  up  at  Assisi  from  the  plain,  you  see  the 
basilica  which  was  built  by  the  companions  of  St.  Francis 
after  his  death.  His  body  rests  beneath  it.  Its  walls 
are  covered  by  Giotto's  lovely  frescoes,  illustrating  the 
life  of  the  saint.  You  may  look  at  them  and  hear  them 
interpreted  still  by  a  little  friar  who  loves  the  memory  of 
St.  Francis  with  a  personal  love,  and  to  whom  every  tale 
of  that  life — the  sermon  to  the  birds,  the  casting  forth  of 
devils  from  Arezzo,  the  bringing  forth  of  water  from  the 
rock  by  prayer— is  sacred  truth.  And  yet,  if  you  wish 
to  be  near  the  very  home  of  Francis  and  of  his  order,  you 
must  go  rather  to  the  little  oratory,  the  Portiuncula,  down 
in  the  valley.  A  great  church  has  been  built  over  it,  St. 
Mary  of  the  Angels,  but  the  little  stone  hut  in  which  St. 
Francis  prayed  is  still  untouched,  and  it  stands  in  peace 
there  protected  by  the  sheltering  walls  of  the  later  struc- 
ture. A  brown-f rocked  Franciscan  will  take  you  through 
a'passage  to  an  open  space  where  roses  are  growing,  and 
will  tell  you  a  strange  story.  St.  Francis,  the  tale  runs, 
was  one  night  sorely  tempted  of  the  Devil  to  moderate  his 


ST.    FRANCIS  CASTING   FORTH   THE   DEVILS   FROM   AREZZO 

Fresco  by  Giotto  in  the  Church  of  S.  Francesco,  Assisi 


w>:  ^'"m: 


*'■'  >t'i  .V'-tA  .r'v.'  '.  .      .V»-      ~    r.      •  ''.'li  X  "'i'v:  i. 


Assisi  and  the  Italy  of  St.  Francis         55 

austerities.     Longing  came  upon  his  tired  mind  and  deli- 
cate frame  to  seek  rest  and  comfort,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  that  these  temptations  came  surely  from  the  Evil  One. 
So  at  last  he  rose  from  his  couch  in  wrath,  and  though 
it  was  a  cold  night,  he  went  ..-.t  and  threw  himself  naked 
into  a  bed  of  thorns.     And  as  iie  lay  there  praising  God, 
a  great  light  shone  about  him,  and  angels  came  to  lead 
him  tenderly  to  his  hut  again  and  there  comfort  him.     And 
on  the  bushes  roses  grew  with  no  thorns.     To  this  day 
the  miracle  is  wrought  on  the  flowers  of  St.  Francis. 
Every   spring   the    roses   still    bloom   on   the    thomless 
branches.     Still  they  smile  in  soft  radiance  at  the  little 
fig-tree  on  whose  branches  a  grasshopper  was  wont  to 
come  to  sing  with  the  saint.     And  every  rose  breathes 
with  its  perfume  the  sweet  memory  of  the  saint  whose 
asceticism  even   is  gentler  than   that  of  others— of  St. 
Francis  o,    Assisi,  this  good  frien       (   :;!!  the  world,  to 
whom   birdb  and  insects  and  angel     m..  lisr. -.d  as  to  a 
brother      And  now  close  with  his  ow.   .  Hiii  w     hymn: 

Most  high,  almighty  and  most  graciou  L  .  Thine  be  the 
pr.;ises,  and  the  glory,  and  the  honor,  and  et'ery  blessing,  /or  unto  Thee 
ai'oiie,  O  most  highest,  do  they  belong,  and  no  man  is  worthy  to  make 
mention  of  Thy  name 

Praised  be  Thou,  O  Lord,  of  all  thy  creatures,  and  above  all 
of  Brother  Sun,  my  Lord,  that  doth  illumine  us  with  the  da,vning 
of  the  day.  For  fair  is  he  and  bright,  and  the  brightness  of  his 
glory  doth  signify  Thou,  O  Thou  most  highest. 

Praised  be  Thou,  O  my  Lord,  of  Sister  Moon  and  the  stars 
that  thou  hast  hapen  in  the  heavens,  bright  and  precious  and 
comely. 

Praised  be  Thou,  O  n  v  Lord,  of  Brother  Wind,  and  the  air 
and  of  the  clouds,  and  the  ."ear,  and  of  all  the  times  of  the  sky 
whereby  thou  dost  make  provision  for  thy  creatures. 


^'P 


56 


Italian  Cities 


Praised  be  Thou,  O  my  Lord,  of  Sister  Water,  for  manifold 
is  her  use,  and  humble  is  she,  and  precious  and  chaste. 

Praised  be  Thou,  O  my  Lord,  of  Brother  Fire,  by  whom 
thou  dost  lighten  our  darkness,  and  comely  is  he  and  joyful  and 
masterful  and  strong. 

Praised  be  Thou,  O  my  Lord,  of  Sister  Earth,  our  mother 
that  doth  cherish  us  and  hath  us  in  keeping  and  doth  bring  forth 
fruit  in  abundance  and  flowers  of  many  colors  and  the  grass. 

Praised  be  Thou,  O  my  Lord,  of  them  that  do  show  for- 
giveness unto  others  for  love  of  Thee,  and  do  endure  sickness  and 
tribulation.  Vea,  blessed  be  they  that  do  endure  in  peace  for  of 
thee,  O  Thou  most  Highest,  shall  they  be  crowned. 

Praised  be  Thou,  O  my  Lord,  of  Sister  Death,  the  death  of 

the  body  from  whom  no  man  living  may  escape,  but  woe  unto 

hem  that  shall  die  in  deadly  sin,  and  blessed  be  they  that  shall 

walk  according  unto  thy  most  holy  will,  for  unto  them  shall  the 

second  death  do  no  hurt. 

Praise  ye  and  bless  my  Lord,  and  give  thanks  unto  Him,  and 
serve  Him  in  all  humbleness. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GENOA  AND  PISA 

It  is  rather  a  shock  to  turn  from  Assisi  to  the  maritime 
cities  of  the  coast.  Not  that  there  is  not  much  that  is 
material  and  brutal  and  self-seeking  enough  in  the  story 
of  Assisi  if  we  choose  to  look  for  it.  Only  the  memory 
of  Francis  and  the  brush  of  Giotto  give  us  so  much  in 
Assisi  that  is  better  worth  thinking  about  than  war  or 
pillage,  and  much  more  satisfying  to  ponder  over  than 
destruction  and  suffering,  that  the  fiercer  and  more  tur- 
bulent pages  of  the  story  are  forgotten,  and  the  name  of 
the  little  city  on  the  hill  only  brings  to  your  mind  the 
thought  of  the  gentle  apostle  and  the  lovely  frescoes  that 
tell  of  his  life.  But  it  is  not  quite  so  with  Genoa  and 
Pisa.  Pisa,  indeed,  is  redeemed  by  her  Campo  Santo, 
her  cathedral,  her  baptistery,  and  the  achievements  of  the 
three  great  sculptors  who  began  the  revival  of  Italian  art 
— Niccola,  Giovanni,  and  Andrea.  But  "Genova  Ic 
Stiperha"  Genoa  the  proud — what  has  she  to  give  us? 
Only  the  record  of  a  brave,  enterprising,  shrewd,  and 
unscrupulous  race  of  sailors  and  merchants.  One  great 
r  •o'^'ern  name  do  we  know  and  reverence  in  Genoa,  that 
o.  Giuseppe  Mazzini,  of  whom  more  later,  and  one  older 
one,  Christopher  Columbus,  mariner  in  the  service  of 
Spain.  But  in  the  days  of  her  independence  no  great 
artist  or  poet  or  prophet,  no  creations  of  permanent  value 
or  beauty,  no  gift  to  the  world,  beyond  the  one  great 
sailor,    that   humanity   would    really   miss.     Take   away 

57 


58 


Italian  Cities 


Rome,  Venice,  Florence,  and  we  should  feel  at  once  a 
keen  sense  of  vital  loss.  Take  away  the  memory  of 
Genoa,  and  there  would  only  be  blotted  out  a  few  pages 
of  brilliant  deeds  in  war,  a  record  of  shrewdness,  boldness, 
and  cunning  in  trade,  a  tale  of  marvelous  city  vitality 
choked,  and  at  last  overcome,  by  fierce  factions. 

As  you  valk  about  the  streets  of  Genoa,  or  look  up 
from  the  harbor  at  the  superb  slope  with  its  proud  city — 
wealthy  and  beautiful  once  more — there  is  little  to  remind 
you  of  the  old  mistress  of  the  Riviera  except  her  beauty. 
A  few  churches  and  here  and  there  a  few  squalid  and  half- 
hidden  remnants,  these  are  all  that  remain  of  the  splendid 
palaces   that   once   rivaled   those   of  the   Grand   Canal. 
"Dost  thou  remember,"  wrote  Petrarch,   who  saw  the 
city  as  it  was  in   the  fourteenth  century,   "Dost  thou 
remember  that  time  when  the  Genoese  were  the  happiest 
people  upon  earth,  and  their  country  appeared  a  celestial 
residence,  even  as  the  Elysi-'n  fields  are  painted?     From 
the  side  of  the  sea,  v.'hat  an  aspect  it  presented!     Towers 
which  seemed  to  threaten  the  firmament,  hills  covered  with 
olives  and  oranges,  marble  palaces  perched  on  the  summit 
of  the  rocks,  with  delicious  retreats  beneath  them  where 
art  conquered  nature,  and  at  the  sight  of  which  the  very 
sailors  checked  the  splashing  of  their  oars,  all  intent  to 
regard.     Whilst  the  traveler  who  approached  by  land  with 
amazement  beheld  men  and  women  right  royally  adorned, 
and  luxuries  abundant  in  mountain  and  in  wood  unknown 
elsewhere   in   royal   courts.     As   the   foot   touched    the 
threshold  of  the  city,  it  Si^cmed  as  if  it  had  reached  the 
temple  of  happiness,  of  which  it  was  said,  as  of  Rome  of 
old,  'This  is  the  city  of  the  kings.'  "     But  this  is  all  gone 
Jong  ago.     To  find  the  tokens  o'   vhat  Genoa  once  was 


!taHtir>i»r»r»Mt 


Genoa  and  Pisa 


59 


you  must  look  out  to  sea,  let  your  eye  fall  on  the  rocky 
point  of  the  Porto  Venere,  and  then  let  the  annals  of  the 
city  bring  back  to  you  some  little  echo  of  the  vigorous  old 
life  that  once  filled  these  waters  with  the  stir  and  storm 
of  Ligurian  energy  and  ambition. 

If  we  are  to  trust  the  great  inscription  over  the  archi- 
trave   of    the    cathedral    nave,   Genoa    is    old    indeed. 
"Janus,"  it  tells  us,  "a  Trojan  prince,  skilled  in  astrol- 
ogy,  and  seeking  on  his  travels  a  healthy,  strong,  and 
secure  place  to  dwell  in,  reached  Janua,  already  founded 
by  Janus,  the  great-grandson  of  Noah,  and  perceiving  that 
it  was  well  protected  from  the  raging  of  the  sea,  increased 
it  in  power  and  renown. ' '     But  whether  its  founding  dates 
quite  so  far  back  or  not,  the  city,  when  it  first  emerges  to 
light  after  the  dismemberment  of  the  Roman  empire,  is  hav- 
ing to  fight  hard  for  life. '    Like  many  another  city  that  had 
flourished  under  Roman  rule,  Genoa  had  passed  through 
deep  and  stormy  waters  after  Rome's  fall.     For  centuries 
darkness   hides    f.om   us    her   struggles    for    existence. 
We  only  know  that  all  of  the  towns  along  the  Riviera 
were  torn  by  internal  strife  and  harried  by  Norman  and 
Saracen  raids  until  it  seems  marvelous  that  they  survived 
at  all.     Yet  life  somel,  >w  remained,  and  the  men  of  Genoa 
were  trained  to  a  fierce  keenness,  a  rough  hardiness,  that 
gradually  enabled  them  to  resist  attack,  to  compel  their 
neighbors  to  submission,  and  to  retaliate  on  the  Saracens. 
They  learned  to  make  stout  and  swift  galleys,  and  on  the 
heights  of  Sarzano  they  built  a  citadel,  a  palace  for  their 
bishop,  who  for  many  generations  was  their  guide  and 
leader,  and  a  church,  St.  Mary  of  the  Castle,  with  strong 

n«H  '«  K""'*  ',"'';ojl'"-"''on  to  Genoese  history  mnv  be  bouKht  in  Bent's  "Genoa" 
and  Ma.ltson's  "btorics  Ironi  Genoese  History."  ^eaoa 


i 


6o 


Italian  Cities 


walls  behind  which  they  could  successfully  defy  their  ene- 
mies on  shore.  Soon  they  were  able  to  send  their  ships 
farther  and  farther  along  the  coast  and  out  to  sea, 
competing  with  the  Saracens  on  their  own  ground, 
meeting  them  fearlessly  in  battle,  and  extending  their 
influence  and  trade  to  Corsica,  Sardinia,  and  the  Balearic 
islands. 

But  the  great  beginning  of  Genoese  glory  came  with 
the  Crusades,  for  the  galleys  and  skilled  mariners  of 
Genoa  were  needed  by  the  princes  and  warriors  who  were 
faring  forth  to  the  conquest  of  Jerusalem.  Many  a  gallant 
knight  stepped  on  board  the  great  ships  in  that  lovely 
harbor  and  paid  good  red  gold  for  transportation  of  him- 
self and  his  men-at-arms  to  alien  lands  where  their  bones 
were  soon  to  whiten  in  the  desert.  And  the  ships  that 
bore  the  Crusaders  to  Egypt  and  Palestine  came  back 
with  eastern  wares.  There  was  rich  gain  to  the  ship-own- 
ers m  both  voyages,  and  they  eagerly  built  more  galleys  as 
more  cross-bearing  warriors  came  to  seek  passage,  and  as 
the  trade  with  Egypt,  Syria,  and  Constantinople  brought 
more  and  more  wealth  to  the  city.  Not  only  did  the  east- 
ern trade  increase.  The  new  wealth,  the  exhilaration  of 
success,  the  larger  knowledge  of  the  Mediterranean  world 
sent  the  Genoese  fleets  in  all  directions,  seeking  new  goods 
and  new  markets.  Along  the  coasts  of  Spain  they  ranged, 
bringing  back  rich  booty  from  the  sack  of  Almeria  in 
1 146,  opening  up  trade  where  they  could  not  rob,  passing 
the  pillars  of  Hercules  and  peering  off  into  the  unknown 
seas  whose  veil  was  to  be  lifted  in  time  by  one  of  their 
fellow-countrymen.  Away  at  tlic  other  end  of  the  Medi- 
terranean, too,  in  the  Black  Sea,  Genoa,  by  a  shrewd 
stroke,  gained  the   favor  of  the  Greek-Roman  ruler  of 


Genoa  and  Pisa 


6i 


Constantinople.  Gradually  she  established  a  supremacy 
in  the  coasts  and  waters  of  The  Euxine  which  lasted  until 
the  conquering  Turks  came  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
Streets  and  quays  were  given  her  in  Constantinople  with  \ 
immunity  from  tribute,  and  to  her  especial  gratification 
the  emperor  gave  her  a  Venetian  monastery  yclept  Panto-^.-  ■'^^ 
cratore.     Rejoicing  exceedingly  over  this  sup^^nting  of  ' 

their  great  rival,  the  Genoese  moved  the  building  stone  by 
stone  to  their  home  city,  and  built  the  materials  into  their 
famous  bank-the  Bank  of  St.  George.'     Soon  the  old 
town  of  Pera,  across  the  Golden  Horn,  was  given  to  the 
triumphant    Ligurian    merchants.     Even    before    this   a 
group  of  wealthy  cides,  colonies  of  Genoa,  had  been  ris- 
ing in  the  Crimea,  and  as  the  mother  city  acquired  the 
commercial  control  of  the  Bosphorus  the  peninsula  became 
the  great  focus  for  merchandise  brought  by  caravan  from 
central  Asia.     Ali  through  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries  this    supremacy   in    the    northern    highway  of 
Asiatic  trade  in  the  Bosphorus  and  the  Black  Sea,  in  the     '' 
Caucasus,  Armenia,  and  northern  Asia  Minor,  continued    ^ 
to  flourish  and  to  bring  vast  wealth  to  the  home  city  in 
her  proud  eyrie  on  the  Riviera.     Only  with  the  conquests 
of  Mohammed  II.— conquests  on  which   the  too  selfish 
Genoese  had   looked  quite  coolly,  suspecting  profit  and 
privilege  to  come— was  the  rich  Italian  settlement  at  Pera 
swept  away,  and   the  destruction  of  the  great  colony  of 
Caffa    in   the  Crimea   soon    after  sounded   the    kneil  of 
Genoa's  supremacy  in  the  Black  Sea— indeed,  of  her  great- 
ness as  a  Mediterranean  power.     From  that  time  the  star 


62 


Italian  Cities 


of  the  Italian  cities  waned,  and  that  of  Spain  and  Portu- 
gal waxed  and  prevailed. 

It  was  in  the  thirteenth  century,  the  period  of  her  most 
rapid  advance  in  wealth  and  power,  that  Genoa  fought 
out  her  great  duel  with  Pisa.     The  quarrel  was  an  old 
one.     The  two  cities  were  too  close  to  one  another  as 
they  each  fought  their  desperate  struggle  for  existence 
against  the  Saracens,  as  they  learned  the  arts  of  war  and 
trade,  as  they  built  their  galleys  and  wandered  forth  seek- 
ing gain  and  profitable  outlet   for  their  energy.     Then 
Pope  Benedict  VIII.,  most  unhappily,  in  his  zeal  to  win 
Corsica  and  Sardinia  from  the  infidels,  promised  the  lord- 
ship of  the  islands  to  whichever  one  of  the  two  cities 
should  conquer  them  and  establish  in  them  the  true  faith. 
It  was  now  the  interest  of  each  not  only  to  triumph  over 
the  Saracens,  but  to  checkmate  one  another.     Pisa  won 
control  over  Sardinia,  but  Corsica  remained  a  fatal  bone 
of  contention,  and  as  the  ambition  and  power  of  each  city 
increased,   as  the  popes   tended   more  and  more   in  the 
twelfth  century  and  the  thirteenth  to  favor  Genoa,  and  as 
Pisa  turned  more  and  more  to  the  emperor,  the  duel  saw 
added  to  tiie  original  commercial  rivalry  the  fierce  feud 
between  Guelf  and  Ghibelline.     So  the  quarrel  became 
one  of  life  and   death.      To  trace   the  succession  of  their 
victories    and    defeats    would,    indeed,    be    unprofitable 
enough.     You  can   scarcely  avoid  some  sympathy  with 
Pisa,  even  if  only  because  you  are  conscious  of  a  debt  to 
her,  but  there  was  little  to  choose  between  them  on  the 
score  of  either  enterprise  or   unscrupulous  cunning,   of 
either  gallantry  or    ferocity.     At   last    Genoa   prevailed. 
In  the  great  battle  off  Meloria  in  August,  1284,  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  Genoese  and  allied  ships  met  and  crushed 


Genoa  and  Pisa 


63 


after  a  savage  and  obstinate  fight  seventy-two  galleys  of 
Pisa.     It  was  a  decisive  victory.     The  blows  which  Genoa 
might  in  future  strike  at  her  defeated  rival  only  brought 
unnecessary  humiliation  and  suflFering  to  an  already  declin- 
ing city,  and  made  more  certain  the  future  supremacy  of 
Florence  over  the  exhausted  Tuscan  sea-power.     A  hun- 
dred years  later  a  Genoese  expedition  under  an  admiral  of 
the  great  house  of  D'Oria  almost  dealt  similar  destruction 
to  Venice.     The  Venetians  were  defeated  in  a  great  battle. 
The  queen  of  the  Adriatic  was  brought  to  the  very  verge 
of  ruin  when,  as  if  by  miracle— as  the  two  forces  fought 
bitterly  and  ferociously  at  Chioggia— the  tide  of  victory 
changed.    Vettor  Pisani,  whose  defeat  at  Pola  had  brought 
him  to  stern  imprisonment  and  had  almost  brought  de- 
struction to  Venice,   was  taken   from  his  dungeon  and 
placed  in  command  once  more.     The  rejoicing  Genoese, 
insolently  refusing  to  make  peace  until  they  should  camp 
in  the  Piazza  of  St.  Mark,  were  at  last  defeated  and  most 
of  them  captured;  and  the  year  1380,  instead  of  renew- 
ing  the  glory  of  Meloria,  rather  saw  the  definite  beginning 
of  Genoa's  decline  as  compared  with  her  splendid  Adri- 
atic rival. 

And  now  what  of  Genoa's  Tuscan  rival,'  the  city  so 
humbled  in  1284,  and  left  so  hopelessly  behind  by  the 
triu.Tiphant  Ligurians  in  the  race  for  commercial  and 
maritime  greatness?  Pisa's  destiny  was  a  strange  one. 
The  same  century,  in  fact  the  same  generation,  that  saw 
her  humiliation,  gave  her  that  glory  which  will  be  hers 

.h  .  !i"  "'1,'='''^  °' j>  ?°?<l,''09,''  on  P'sa  in  English  it  is  worth  while  to  mention 
hrst  volume  o(  Marcel  Keyniond.  "  La  Sculpture  Florentine  '  '"' 


i 


■ill 


64 


Italian  Cities 


when  her  conqueror  is  long  forgotten,  the  glory  of  reviv- 
ing vitality  in  Italian  art,  Pisa  was  the  teacher  of  Flor- 
ence herself.  And  though  her  strength  and  inspiration 
soon  failed  her,  so  that  her  exhausted  hand  had  to  pass 
on  the  torch  to  the  sister  city  that  was  beginning  her 
glorious  career  further  up  the  valley  of  the  Amo,  yet 
when  you  look  over  tiie  quiet  old  streets  and  walk  beneath 
the  hoary,  crumbling  walls  you  are  on  ground  that  to  all 
lovers  of  beauty  should  be  in  a  measure  sacn;d.  Here 
lived  and  worked  Niccola  and  his  son  Giovanni,  who  while 
Pisa  was  nearing  her  doom — even  while  the  blow  fell,  and 
the  exultant  Genoese  were  rejoicing  in  their  victory  at 
Meloria— were  creating  the  first  forms  of  real  life  and 
natural  beauty  that  Italy  had  seen  for  many  centuries. 
Niccola  learned  of  Greek  teachers  indeed,  for  the  work- 
ers of  Byzantium  were  the  best  in  the  world,  but  he  lived 
to  surpass  his  masters  and  to  bring  back  reality  to  art, 

Theie  is  'ittle  doubt  as  to  your  first  proceeding  when 
you  step  from  your  train  at  Pisa.  Many  as  are  the  spots 
in  the  old  city  that  you  will  wish  to  see  and  to  dream  over 
later  on,  yet  it  is  without  the  smallest  hesitation  that  you 
direct  your  ragged  driver  to  the  Duomo.  And  then,  after 
a  short  rattling  drive  through  narrow,  crooked  streets  \'ou 
see  the  top  of  the  famous  Campanile — the  Leaning  Tower 
— over  intervening  roofs.  Another  turn,  and  the  gr;^at 
group  is  before  you — cathedral,  tower,  baptistery,  and 
Campo  Santo,  and  you  dismount  and  prepare  to  explore. 
You  climb  the  tower  first,  not  because  it  attracts  you 
most,  but  because  you  think  it  may  be  worth  while  to  get 
your  bearings  from  the  top.  So  up  you  toil,  and  suffi- 
ciently tiresome  it  is,  but  you  want  the  view  and  you  have 
some   curiosity   to   know   how   the   slant   of    the   tower 


Genoa  and  Pisa  65 

will  affect  you.  In  neither  respect  is  the  fruit  of  your 
ascent  very  startling.  The  view  is  interesting  in  its 
way,  but  not  unusually  beautiful,  and  like  every  bird's-eye 
view  that  you  have  ever  seen,  it  lacks  character,  and  is 
scarcely  worth  the  trouble  taken  to  obtain  it.  The  sloping 
top  is  novel  enough,  and  with  the  high  wind  that  is  blow- 
ing, you  have  to  be  cautious  in  moving  about,  but  prob- 
ably your  sense  of  danger  is  greater  than  it  needs  to  be, 
and  doubtless  if  you  did  slip,  the  iron  railing  would 
check  your  progress.  You  look  over  the  higher  edge  to 
see  how  the  slant  affects  you,  but  it  is  really  hardly  notice- 
able there,  and  on  the  whole,  you  are  inclined  to  suspect 
travelers  of  some  romancing  when  they  have  descanted 
on  so  tempting  a  subject  as  the  Leaning  Tower.  Not 
that  it  does  not  lean.  It  does,  very  decidedly,  and  the 
illusion  of  impending  catastrophe  is  startling  enough  if 
you  stand  beneath. 

Now  you  peep  into  the  great  cathedral.  It  is  one  of 
the  most  impressive  in  Italy.  Many  of  its  characteristics 
are  common  to  a  numoer  of  the  Italian  churches,  but  your 
eye  falls  with  peculiar  interest  on  the  columns,  each  differ- 
ent from  the  others,  monuments,  all  of  them,  of  the  far 
roaming  of  the  Pisan  fleets  which  once  brought  these 
home  one  by  one  from  old  temples  in  different  parts  of 
the  Mediterranean  world.  Once  they  witnessed  sacrifices 
to  Athena  or  Zeus,  to  Apollo  or  Neptune.  Now  they 
stand  in  stately  order,  musing  great  memories  of  the  old 
gods  that  have  passed  away,  and  looking  down  as  years 
come  and  go  on  the  worship  of  this  new  God  that  has 
conquered  those  of  Athens  and  Rome.  Up  in  the  dome 
of  the  -pse,  too,  you  ste  a  magnificent  old  Byzantine 
mosaic    .  colossal  head  of  Christ  on  the  usual  gold  back- 


'••.;^*  sr 


^■■il'ti.- 


66 


Italian  Cities 


ground.  It  is  most  stately  and  impressive,  not  real  or 
human,  and  evidently  not  meant  to  be  so.  Among  the 
votive  offerings  hanging  by  the  altar  is  a  little  child's 
dress.  You  wonder  what  stor\'  of  love  and  thankfulness 
it  is  meant  to  tell.  It  is  a  pathetic  and  htautiful  thing, 
this  custom  of  votive  offerings.  You  have  often  liked  it 
as  you  read  of  it  in  the  classics,  and  here  you  see  it  carried 
out  in  all  sincerity  and  reverence  by  these  descendants  of 
Etruscans  and  Romans  in  modem  Italy. 

With  heightened  excitement,  you  now  H;rr'!  your 
thoughts  to  the  Baptistery  and  the  Campo  Santo,  '^here, 
after  all,  are  the  things  you  came  here  to  see.  So  you 
leave  the  Duomo  by  the  door  facing  the  Baptistery,  and 
pause  there  for  a  moment  before  entering.  It  is  a  won- 
derful old  building  in  its  way,  on  the  whole  the  most  beau- 
tiful example  of  rich  Byzantine  carving  that  you  have  seen 
or  expect  to  see.  The  figures  taken  individually  may  be 
stiff  and  unnatural;  they  doubtless  are  so,  for  though 
Greek  workmen  carved  them,  they  were  Greeks  who  had 
long  abandoned  the  attempt  to  rejjroduce  life,  to  vitalize 
and  idealize.  But  they  had  not  lost  the  Greek  instinct 
for  beauty.  One  does  not  look  in  Byzantine  painting  for 
the  naturalness  and  perspective  of  the  Pompeian  frescoes, 
or  in  Byzantine  sculpture  for  the  life  and  beauty  of  the 
Parthenon  frieze  or  the  Venus  de  Milo.  Fourth-century 
Greeks,  first-century  Romans,  thirteenth-century  Byzan- 
tines, or  Byzantine-taught  Italians  had  ideals  too  much  at 
variance  to  permit  of  much  profitable  comparison.  But 
this  work  on  the  Pisan  Baptistery,  like  the  mosaics  of  St. 
Mark's,  hns  its  own  state liness  and  effectiveness.  Dead 
it  is,  but  with  majesty  and  a  certain  memory,  so  to  sreii'i, 
of  hfe  and  beauty  in  each  marble  limb  and  face  li-at  a^  es 


Genoa  and  Pisa 


67 


and  impresses  you.     And  the  total  effect  of  the  whole 
richly  carved  building  is  beautiful  from  any  point  of  view. 
Just  for  a  moment  you  peep  in  to  see  at  first  hand  the 
famous  pulpit  that  you  have  studied  so  often  in  photo- 
graphs.    There  it  is  by  the  great  font,  its  pillars  resting, 
three  of  them  at  least,  on  the  familiar  old  lions,  and 
above— the  far-famed  reliefs  of  the  life  of  Christ.     You 
identify  each  form  as  you  walk  about  it,  each  crude,  often 
unlovely,  face  and  figure  in  which  the  budding  life  of  the 
Renaissance  is  tryiner  to  break  forth  from  the  stubborn 
stone.     You  bring  back  to  your  mind  the  eager  face  of 
the   sculptor,    his  anxious   studying  of  his  old   Roman 
model,  his  uncertain,  impatient  chipping  of  the  marble  as 
his  hand— practiced  only  in  the  conventional  work  of  the 
schools— sought  to  create  the  graceful,  living  lines  that 
his  soul  imagined  and  craved  to    realize.     What  great 
things  were  held  for  the  world  then  in  that  dusty  work- 
shop, those  smitings  of  Niccola's  chisel,  those  half-formed 
dreams  of  this  pioneer  of  the  Renaissance!     These  reliefs 
have  the   fascination  that  all  things  have  that  embody 
the  first  expression  of  a  great  idea;  there  is  in  them  the 
latent  energy,  the  dawning  life  of  tremendous  possibilities 
in  the  years  to  come— a  certain  charm,  too,  that  the  fully 
developed  art  of  the  coming  centuries  may  not  possess. 

Now,  before  you  go  to  see  Niccola's  model  in  the 
Campo  Santo,  turn  to  your  Vasari'  and  see  what  he  says 
of  these  things.  "Niccola  Pisano,"  he  says,  "first  worked 
under  cer  an  Greek  sculptors,  who  were  executing  the 
figures  and  other  ornaments  in  sculpture,  of  the  Duomo 
of  Pisa  and  the  chapel  of  S.  Giovanni.'  Among  the 
many  spoils  of  marbles  brouf  ht  home  by  the  Pisan  fleets 


M 


'  The  Baptistery. 


■"Lives  of  Italian  Painters. 


m 


:«a!Si.uMaui 


TSRRMft' 


m 


warn 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^    APPLIED  IM/^GE 


'65.!    lait    Va,r.    ;• 

Rochester,    Me«    for.         14609       uSA 

{'!6)    482  -  0300-  Phone 

(716)    288  -  5989  -  Fa, 


68 


Italian  Cities 


were  several  antique  sarcophagi,  now  in  the  Campo  Santo 
of  that  town.  One  of  these,  on  which  the  Chase  of 
Meleager,  hunting  the  Calydonian  boar,  was  cut  with 
great  truth  and  beauty,  surpassed  all  the  others,  the  nude 
as  well  as  draped  figures  being  perfect  in  design  and  exe- 
cuted with  great  skill.  Niccola,  considering  the  excellence 
of  this  work,  which  greatly  delighted  him,  applied  such 
diligence  in  imitating  that  style,  studying  carefully  both 
the  sarcophagus  and  other  excellent  sculptures,  that 
before  long  he  was  consiccred  the  best  sculptor  of  his 
time." 

A  short  stone's  throw  from  the  Baptistery  is  the 
entrance  to  the  Campo  Santo,  and  in  a  moment  you  are 
within  the  famous  cloistered  inclosure,  built  by  Niccola's 
son  Giovanni  at  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The 
soil  of  it  is  holy  indeed,  brought  in  sixty  ships  from  the 
Holy  Land  itself,  and  many  worthy  men  of  olden  time  are 
buried  here.  But  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  their  memories 
that  you  have  come.  With  little  more  than  a  passing 
thought  of  the  forgotten  dead  who  rest  here,  you  walk 
along  through  the  lovely  Gothic  cloisters,  marveling  at 
the  frescoed  walls  and  the  stone  relics  of  ancient  days, 
until  you  come  to  the  very  sarcophagus  that  Niccola 
studied  so  earnestly  six  hundred  years  ago.  It  looks  old 
certainly,  but  not  worn,  and  it  must  be  quite  unchanged 
since  the  thirteenth  century.  There,  still,  is  Meleager 
hunting  the  Calydonian  boar,  and  with  it  another  relief 
that  Niccola  certainly  also  studied  and  used,  telling  the 
story  of  Hippolytus  and  Phaedra.  The  work  is  all  good, 
quite  evidently  done  at  a  time  when  the  Greek  hand  had 
not  yet  lost  its  cunning,  when  Greeks  and  Greek-taught 
Italians  still  took  their  models  from  life  and  their  ideals  of 


''Wr:^^K^ 


-wff^^'T^mi 


Genoa  and  Pisa 


69 


art  from  the  fifth  and  fourth  century  masters.  In  the 
chase  of  Meleager  there  is  the  clear  echo  of  the  Parthenon 
frieze.  Life,  movement,  ease,  and  grace  are  in  every  line. 
So  one  may  still  enter  somewhat  into  the  point  of  view  of 
the  discerning  sculptor  who  with  all  his  Byzantine  training 
pored  over  these  figures  and  saw  their  beauty.  Somewhat, 
indeed,  for  how  little  can  we  appreciate  after  all  the  cour- 
age, the  clearness  of  artistic  vision,  the  strength  and 
stubbornness  of  soul  that  deliberately  revolted  against 
convention,  and  tried  to  make  his  Madonna  and  his  saints 
lifelike  and  beautiful  like  these  Roman  figures  of  a  thou- 
sand years  back. 

Just  for  a  moment  clap  wings  to  your  shoulders  and 
flit  away  across  country  to  the  lovely  old  city  of  Siena. 
Light  in  front  of  the  exquisite  Gothic  cathedral,  and  walk 
up  its  aisle  by  the  great  black  and  white  striped  pillars  till 
you  stand  by  another  pulpit,  a  larger  and  more  elaborate 
one  than  that  which  you  have  beer  studying  in  the  Pisan 
Baptistery.    It  is  Niccola's  second  '  piece  of  work  since  his 
study  of  the  old  sarcophagus.    The  Pisan  pulpit  had  tested 
his  hand  and  eye,  and  his  work  on  it  had  both  convinced  him 
that  he  was  right  and  taught  him  valuable  lessons.     More- 
over,  people  came  and  marveled  at  it,  rejoicing  at  its 
beauty.     So  when  the  sculptor  was  given  a  similar  task 
by  the  Sienese  he  followed  a  similar  plan  and  worked  it 
out  more  perfectly.     The  figures  of  the  Pisan  pulpit  are 
a  little  bit  too  much  like  things  copied— they  lack  spon- 
taneity   and    ease— and    their    stiffness    and    stateliness 
and  statuesque  pose  lack  the  soft,  human  touch  of  ideally 

'This  is  not  quite  accurate.  Between  the  two  pulpits  comes  in  rhrnnA 
logical  order  the  "Area  di  S.  Domenico "  at  Bolcwnn  sarcoohalus  w^th  Ji," 
compartments  of.re.efs.  The  similarity  of  plan  oTthe  pu]pi?8  sivel  Tbettl? 
basis  (or  comparison,  however.  iiuipim  gives  a  oetter 


-1) 


70 


Italian  Cities 


I  I 


Christian  work.  But  the  change  that  you  look  for  is  most 
wonderfully  evident  in  this  second  attempt.  The  artist's 
hand  is  sure  now,  the  Madonna  is  a  real  mother,  not  a 
stately,  emotionless  matron,  the  faces  are  sweet  and 
rounded,  the  figures  graceful  and  natural,  so  that  )ou  feel 
at  once  that  the  genius  of  this  Pisan  sculptor  has  seized 
with  sure  grip  on  the  old  ideals  of  beauty  and  truth, 
applied  them  with  skill  and  sympathy  to  the  treatment  of 
a  Christian  subject,  and  definitely  launched  Italian  art 
on  a  new  era.  You  will  feel  this  more  clearly  still  if  you 
look  at  an  earlier  relief — purely  medieval — that  is  set  into 
the  wall  about  thirty  feet  from  the  pulpit.  It  represents 
the  Annunciation,  the  Nativity,  the  Adoration  of  the 
?  igi,  and  the  flight  into  Egypt.  You  may  stand  there 
and  look  at  the  older  representation  of  the  Nativity  with 
its  clumsy,  ill-proportioned  forms,  its  absurdly  hideous 
faces,  its  total  lack  of  artistic  sense,  and  then  simply  turn 
your  head  and  let  your  eye  rest  on  the  graceful,  satisfying 
lines,  the  natural,  though  crowded,  grouping,  and  the  real 
beauty  and  truth  of  Niccola's  rendering  of  the  same  sub- 
ject.    One  look  will  be  sufficient. 

It  will  be  worth  your  while  if  you  have  time  to  carry 
on  still  further  your  study  of  these  beginnings  of  Renais- 
sance sculpture.  You  will  find  that  with  the  technical 
skill  and  sense  for  finish  which  had  never  been  lost,  these 
sculptors,  as  soon  as  they  really  grasped  the  significance 
of  this  new  ideal  of  naturalness  and  beauty,  this  return 
rather  to  Gieek  and  Roman  principles  and  models,  pro- 
gressed tov  irds  rer.l  excellence  with  amazing  speed.  The 
vigorous  life  of  the  Gothic  art,  which  was  creating  such 
exquisite  forms  of  beauty  north  of  the  Alps,  was  filtering 
into  Italy  also,  and  gave  an  added  vitality  to  the  message 


Genoa  and  Pisa 


71 


and  work  of  the  Pisans.     The  reUefs  on  the  great  foun- 
tain  at  Perugia,  done  by  Niccola  in  his  old  age,  aided  by    r< 
his  brilliant  son  Giovanni,  have  a  grace  and  life  that  in   \ 
themselves  leave  nothing  to  be  desired.     The  modeling  is 
practically  perfect.     Variety  and   progress  will   still   be 
possible  in  regard  to  the  artistic  message,  the  content,  and 
there  will  be  varying  power  of  rendering  perspective  in 
relief,  of  stimulating  the  imagination,  of  conveying  force, 
of  making  ideal  forms  of  beauty.     But   the  possibility 
of  all  this— of  Orcagna,   of  Ghiberti,  of  Donatello,   of 
Verocchio,  and  of  Michelangelo  himself— lay  implicit  in 
this  pioneer  work  of  Niccola  the  Pisan.     It  is  interesting 
to  see  him  at  Orvieto  working  in  actual  contact  and  compe- 
tition with  some  of  those  German  workmen  who  were 
helping  to  bring  the  Gothic  stimulus  to  Italy.     It  was 
once  when  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  Tuscany  from     ^ 
Naples,  that  he  passed  through  Orvieto,  where  they  were 
building  the  great  church  of  S.  Maria.     Here  he  "worked    - 
in  the  company  of  some  Germans,  making  figures  in  high 
relief  in  marble  for  the  front  of  that  church,  and  morf; 
particularly  a  Last  Judgment,  comprising  both  Paradise 
and  Hell;  and  as  he  took  the  greatest  pains  to  render  ihe 
souls  of  the  blessed  in  Paradise  as  beautiful  as  he  possibly 
could,  so  he  introduced  into  his  Hell  the  most  fantastic 
shape  of  devils  imaginable,  all  intent  on  tormenting  the 
souls  of  the  damned.     In  this  work  not  only  did  he  sur- 
pass the  Germans  who  were  working  there,  but  even  him- 
self, to  his  great  glory." 

Before  you  leave  Pisa  you  will  study  also  the  works  of 
Niccola's  son,  the  brilliant,  impetuous  Giovanni,  who  did     •, 
so  much  to  carry  on  his  father's  work,  who  perhaps  even   \,'' 
more  consciously  and  vigorously  abandoned  conventional 


7a 


Italian  Cities 


models  for  living  ones,  and  whose  great  Duomo  pulpit » 
shows  the  stage  that  Pisan  sculpture  had  reached  when 
Andrea  carried  it  to  Florence.'  But  all  this  you  leave  to 
a  more  convenient  season.  For  in  your  strolling  through 
the  cloisters  you  find  a  fresco  that  turns  your  thoughts 
for  the  moment  in  another  direction.  1  is  the  great  pic- 
ture of  "The  Triumph  of  Death,"  once  ascribed  to 
Orcagna,  the  most  fearsome  and  realistic  interpretation  in 
Italian  art  of  the  most  terrible  side  of  medieval  Chris- 
tianity. 

Here  in  the  foreground  is  a  party  of  gay  cavaliers  in 
crimson  and  gold,  with  proud,  stately  horses  and  eager, 
straining  hounds,  all  bound  for  the  hunt,  when  suddenly 
they  come  upon  a  terrible  spectacle  in  their  very  path. 
Three  coffins  containing  three  decaying  corpses,  one  of 
them  wearing  a  kingly  crown,  lie  there  in  all  their  horror, 
one  of  them  almost  a  skeleton,  and  foul  serpents  twining 
aho-c.t  the  other  two.  In  the  background,  oblivious  both 
of  worldly  vanity  and  the  mortality  of  the  flesh,  are  pious 
hermits,  men  who  have  abjured  the  pomp  and  pride  of 
the  world  and  to  whom  death  is  as  nothing.  One  of  them 
milks  a  goat,  another  reads  from  a  holy  book  by  the  steps 
of  a  tiny  chapel— reads  aloud,  apparently,  for  another 
leans  on  crutches  near  by  in  an  attitude  of  devout  atten- 
tion. To  these  death,  when  it  comes,  will  bring  no  sting, 
only  a  welcome  entrance  into  a  brighter,  happier  world. 
But  from  a  cUflf  above,  unseen  by  the  hermits  or  by  a  deer 
that  lies  near  by,  break  gusts  of  fierce  flames.  Over 
them  hover  frightful  bat-winged  forms  holding  naked  souls 


D'«r^''"'*"*'''''*"'°'"*"'*°°  ""^  '"''P''*  °'  Niccola  and  Giovanni  in 


Val 


th.  L^n-fj*?'.!,''®  tbird  great  Pisan  sculptor,  mav  be  studied  best,  perhaps,  in 
the  panels  of  the  great  bronze  doors  that  he  made  for  the  Baptistery  at  Florence. 


N 


4kk.      _  '  -.  . 


^t 


■'JVV' 


^•'^'^^W^-'' 


Genoa  and  Pisa 


73 


who  are  about  to  be  plunged  into  the  fiery  openings. 
Here  all  together  you  may  see  the  pride  of  the  world,  the 
horror  of  death,  the  peace  of  the  holy  life,  and  the  terrors 
of  Hell. 

Now  you  pass  on  and  reach  the  central  part  of 
the  picture.  Here  is  Death  himself,  draped  and  winged, 
holding  a  great  scythe.  Behind  him  and  unnoticed  by 
him  are  aged,  crippled,  mutilated,  and  diseased  forms — 
men  and  women  yearning  for  death  and  holding  out  en- 
treating arms  to  the  dread  power  that  will  not  release 
them  from  their  misery.  Instead,  he  is  turning  with  fierce 
eyes  and  uplifted  blade  towards  a  group  of  youths  and 
maidens  who  are  making  merry  together  with  their  pets, 
their  music,  their  joyous  converse,  all  unknowing.  Be- 
neath the  figure  of  Death  lie  heaped  together  a  crowd  of 
his  victims.  Bishops  and  kings,  lords  and  ladies,  priests 
and  laymen,  lie  there  still  enough,  and  from  their  mouths 
their  souls  are  coming,  little  and  naked,  to  be  seized  by 
devils  or  angels  according  to  their  destiny.  Great  hairy 
green  and  red  monsters  are  these  devils,  with  hideous 
beast  faces,  sharp,  webbed  claws,  huge  flapping  ears,  and 
they  grip  tK  .  "is  with  yells  of  joy,  to  bear  them  oflF 

to  the  flar>:  ns  in  the   hillside.     One  poor  sou! 

with  a  shave,  .ovn  is  suspended  in  mid-air,  an  angel 
grasping  his  am  s  and  a  devil  his  feet.  The  fearsome 
beast  has  his  jaws  wide  open,  as  if  he  might  be  howling 
forth  curses,  but  another  angel  is  hastening  towards  them 
with  outstretched  arm,  so  one  may  have  hopes  that  the 
fiend  is  to  be  discomfited  and  the  distressed  soul  rescued. 
Those  who  are  being  borne  safely  to  Paradise  by  angels 
have  their  hands  clasped  in  prayer,  as  well  they  might. 

A  little  further  along  the  wall  is  a  Last  Judgment,  and 


74 


Italian  Cities 


a  most  terrifying  representation  of  Hell  itself.  Altogether, 
one  feels  that  the  relatives  of  those  who  are  buried  here 
must  have  had  stout  hearts  indeed  if  they  could  visit  the 
graves  of  the  departed,  albeit  buried  in  the  holiest  of 
soil,  and  gaze  on  these  things  without  quakings  of  spirit 
and  much  inward  searching.  They  represented  a  per- 
fectly real  thing  to  the  medieval  mind.  Each  terrified 
beholder,  as  he  gazed  shrinking  and  yet  fascinated  on 
those  helpless  souls  rising  from  the  dead  mouths,  might 
dream  of  the  time  that  would  surely  come  when  D(  ith's 
scythe  would  at  last  reach  him,  too,  when  prayer  and 
priestly  intercession  would  avail  no  longer,  and  when  if 
no  angel  came  to  save  him,  nor  crown  nor  tonsure,  nor  silk 
robes  nor  mitre,  would  save  him  from  the  awful  grip  of 
those  fiendish  claws.  Many  sober  faces  and  evil  dreams 
must  these  frescoed  walls  have  caused  in  the  four  centuries 
or  more  since  they  were  painted.  One  wonders  whether 
the  heart  of  the  painter  himself  must  not  have  been  smit- 
ten by  his  horrible  imaginings,  or  whether  indeed  he  would 
lay  down  his  brush  from  the  coloring  of  a  demon's  jaw  .: 
tail  and  pass  worldly  jests  with  frivolous  companions  over 
the  good  red  Chianti.  Who  knows?  Dante  himself  knew 
somewhat  of  the  joys  of  the  world,  even  though  men  said 
that  his  black  hair  had  been  curled  and  his  face  darkened 
by  the  heat  and  smoke  of  hell. 


11 


CHAPTER  V 

SIENA 

Already  your  thoughts  have  turned  once  to  Siona, 
where  Niccola's  great  masterpiece  stands.     Now  you  go 
there,  with  full  intent  to  give  yourself  up  for  a  little  while 
to  the  fascination  of  the  lovely  old  city  and  get  wholly  rid 
of  the  memories  of  the  Campo  Santo  demons.     The  jour- 
ney itself  will  require  some  patience.     If  you  go  from 
either  Pisa  or  Florence,  you  must  change  at  Empoli  and 
take  an  absurdly  slow  train  for  the  south.     Thereon  you 
will  meditatively  rock  and  rumble,  pausing  frequently  for 
long  ruminations,  past  fields  red  with  poppies,  past  hills 
crowned  with  little  cities,  past  distant  towers  that  were 
built  cnly  about  six  hundred  years  ago,  until  you  come  to 
the  quiet  city  that  was  once  the  second  state  in  Tuscany. 
As  you  drive  along  through  the  streets  you  pass  a  column 
bearing  the  Roman  she-wolf  and  twins,  for  Siena  was 
founded,  saith  tradition,  by  Senio,  son  of  Remus,  and  her 
emblem  has  been  fcr  many  ages  that  of  Rome  herself. 
Then  you  are  landed  before  a  comfortable  house  near  St. 
Catherine's  old  church  of  San  Domenico,  and  welcomed 
by  a  smiling  Italian  hostess,  and  you  very  soon  discover 
in  your  soul  a  sense  of  satisfaction,  of  rest,  of  desire  to 
stay  where  you  are  and  revel,  which  few  other  cities  in  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Italy  could  give  you." 

In  due  time  you  find  yourself  on  the  Via  Cavour. 

1  See  Edmond  Gardner's  "Siena,"  in  i   i  "Stories  of  Medieval  Tn«m«" 
series,  and  VV.  D.  Howells'  "Paniorte  di  Siena."  in  his  "Tuscan  c"ei"^  °'™' 

75 


W-^V^i^ 


76 


Italian  Citits 


There  .5  always  a  Via  Cavour.  no  matter  what  the  city 
may  be  as  there  is  always  a  Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele. 
but  no  Via  Cavour  and  no  Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele  in 
other  cities  can  at  all  be  classed  with  those  of  Siena.     The 
great  statesman  himself  is  but  little  in  your  thoughts  as 
you  stroll  down  the  narrow  winding  street  that  bears  his 
name.     Some  of  the  shop  windows  are  in  a  mild  way 
modem  enough,  but  houses  and  streets  suggest  in  the 
mam  a  time  far  beyond  Cavour  or  Mazzini  or  Napoleon 
or  the  Grand  Dukes,  and  you  drift  back  easily  into  the 
fourteenth  century.     Then  as  3  .u  walk  on  and  turn  with- 
out  knowmg  it  into  the  Via  deila  Citta,  you  have  one  of 
the  most  entirely  delightful  surprises  that  even  Italy  could 
hold  for  you.     Through  an  unexpected  break  in  the  stone 
buildings  on  your  left,  opens  out  all  at  once  the  great 

ZT^     J  ^  ?°"°"'  '"^""P  ''  ''°P"'  ^°^"  f'-°"'  yo"  like 
the  floor  of  a  huge  theater,  and  on  the  far  side  straight  in 

front  of  you,  rises  the  scaring  tower  of  the  Mangia. 

You  do  not  immediately  descend  from  your  point  of 
vantage;  the  prospect  from  the  upper  rim  of  the  Piazza 
.s  too  exhilarating.     But  after  a  while  you  walk  down 
towards  the  great  bri:':  Palazzo  Communale  that  has  stood 
here  with  its  tower  since  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
nry,  and  enter,  bent  on  exploration.     It  is  the  building 
that  corresponds  to  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  in  Florence,  the 
old  seat  of  government  in  the  days  when  Siena  was  a  pros- 
perous  city  of  one  hundred  thousand  inhabitants,  and  an 
mdependent  republic.     But  there  is  an  air  of  deserted 
splendor,  of  long  silence  and  disuse  here  that  scarcely 
pf  !!  'Z  •"  ^'^   P^^^"°  Vecchio  or  in  the  Doges' 
Palace  ,n  Venice.     Siena  and  her  associations  are  more 
medieval   and  less  Renaissance  or  modem   than  either 


, 


A  STREET   IN   SIENA 

With  the  Muncia  T.^wcr 


Siena 


77 


Florence  or  Venice.  Her  final  fall,  when  it  came  in  1555, 
was  more  complete  and  irreparable  than  theirs.  Their 
public  buildings,  old  though  they  are,  yet  have  some 
modem  associations.  Siena  has  none.  Her  Palazzo 
Communale  has  memories  only  of  centuries  long  dead 
and  half  forgotten,  and  yet  they  are  memories  so  proud 
and  kept  with  such  dignity  that  you  walk  through  the  old 
halls  with  no  lack  of  reverence,  indeed  with  a  feeling  that 
in  some  council  room,  you  may,  at  any  moment,  come 
upon  a  group  of  white-bearded,  hawk-eyed  senators, 
gfravely  debating  affairs  of  state. 

Most  of  the  frescoes  are  fairly  to  be  called  archaic, 
not  pre-Giotto,  but  fourteenth  century.  You  reap  some 
martial  joy  from  the  warlike  pictures  of  Spinello  Aretino, 
— from  one  particulany,  not  as  warlike  as  the  others, 
representing  the  Doge  of  Venice  and  the  Emperor  Freder- 
ick Barbarossa  holding  the  stirrups  of  Pope  Alexander  III. 
The  point  whereof  is  that  said  pope  was  a  Sienese,  and 
that  much  joy  warmed  the  hearts  of  the  proud  burghers 
of  Siena  at  the  sight  of  Doge  and  Emperor  doing  honor 
to  their  fellow-townsman.  The  same  famous  story  of  the 
"Peace  of  Venice"  between  Pope  and  Emperor,  only 
emphasizing  the  legendary  humiliation  of  Barbarossa,  you 
will  meet  in  Venice  on  the  walls  of  the  Ducal  palace  itself, 
only  a  stone's  throw  from  the  spot  where  the  proud  pontiff 
was  fabled  to  have  placed  his  foot  upon  the  neck  of  the 
humbled  Caesar.  Bui  here  in  Siena  the  story  has  the  flavor 
of  pride  of  city  added  to  that  of  country  and  church. 

In  another  room  are  three  frescoes  that  give  you  a 
pleasure  half  similar  to  that  of  solving  a  puzzle.  They 
are  allegorical,  and  endeavor  to  portray  the  ideals  of 
government.     One  of   them  shows  a  grave  King  sur- 


M 


4i 


78 


Italian  Cities 


rounded  by  virtues,  and  with  a  procession  of  citizens 
coming  to  the  foot  of  his  throne.  At  the  other  side  of 
the  picture,  balancing  the  figure  of  the  King,  is  Justice, 
with  Concord  at  her  feet,  Wisdom  hovering  above  her 
head,  and  attendant  spirits  dispensing  rewards  to  the  good 
and  punishment  to  the  wicked.  From  the  hand  of  Justice 
yen  can  trace  a  cord  passing  down  through  Concord, 
through  the  line  of  citizens  and  running  up  to  terminate  in 
the  King's  scepter.  Behold  the  moral!  The  Monarch's 
power,  embodied  in  his  scepter,  comes  to  him  from  his 
people,  but  is  based  ultimately  on  Concord,  which  comes 
from  Justice  inspired  by  Wisdom !  On  another  wall  is  a 
series  of  scenes  representing  flourishing  towns,  fertile 
fields,  and  happy  groups  of  people,  showing  the  results 
of  good  government.  On  a  third  are  barren  fields,  a 
disconsolate  and  scanty  population,  men  quarreling,  and 
general  desolation,  all  of  which  comes  from  bad  govern- 
ment. So  that  the  total  effect  of  the  three  frescoes 
should  have  been  a  constant  appeal  to  the  rulers  of  Siena 
to  be  mindful  of  their  duty.  One  wonders  how  often  it 
was  heeded.  At  all  events,  these  with  the  frescoes  in  the 
Spanish  Chapel  of  Santa  Maria  Novella,  are  the  most 
famous  allegorical  paintings  in  Italy,  and  they  quite  repay 
study. 

From  the  Palazzo  Communale  you  walk  across  the 
square  to  a  fountain  which  is  itself  worth  coming  to  Siena 
to  see,  but  which  can  be  described  in  detail  with  but  little 
profit.  It  is  the  famous  Fonte  Gaja  decorated  by  reliefs 
carved  in  marble  by  Jacopo  della  Querela.  You  will  meet 
his  work  again  at  Bologna,  but  you  are  not  likely  any- 
where to  see  better  illustrations  of  this  greatest  cf  Michel- 
angelo's predecessors  than  here  in  Siena.     These  reliefs 


Aim 


Siena 


79 


are  not  the  originals:  those  are  in  the  museum  that  you 
will  see  later,  near  the  Cathedral,  the  Opera  del  Duomo. 
But  the  originals  are  in  voefully  worn  and  battered  con- 
dition, and  the  copies  seem  to  an  untutored  mind — in 
spite  of  Ruskin's  great  authority — to  give  one  far  more  of 
the  sculptor's  actual  message  than  do  the  mutilated  frag- 
ments of  Jacopo's  own  making.  The  one  best  worth 
studying  you  will  see  also  reproduced  over  the  door  of  the 
Duomo  library,  the  "Expulsion  from  Paradise."  In  this 
you  will  perhaps  verify  that  incautious  phrase  just  used  a 
moment  ago — "the  greatest  of  Michelangelo's  predeces- 
sors." Not,  remember,  the  greatest  of  Italian  sculptors 
before  Michelangelo;  perhaps  Ghiberti,  Donatello  or 
Verocchio  might  indignantly  and  successfully  contest  such 
a  statement.  But  of  those  who  in  a  special  sense  taught 
the  genius  of  Michelangelo  to  follow  its  mighty  path 
Jacopo  della  Querela,  in  this  "Expulsion  from  Paradise," 
most  neariy  fore-shadowed  the  figures  of  the  Sistine  and 
the  "Moses"  itself.  Adam  and  Eve  have  here  the  same 
strength,  the  same  intense  vitality,  the  same  marvelous 
expression  of  tearing,  consuming  emotions  in  outward 
form  that  we  associate  with  Michelangelo.  The  other 
reliefs  on  the  fountain  are  well  worth  careful  study  too, 
and  in  proportion  as  you  have  their  strong  lines  firmly  in 
mind  will  you  be  able  soon  to  approach  the  masterpieces 
of  the  Sistine  ceiling. 

If  in  an  actual  visit  you  could  thus  long  postpone  a 
)k  at  the  cathedral  your  patience  could  only  be  explained 
by  your  ignorance.  Yet  one  must  in  a  sense  envy  you 
that  very  ignorance.  First  impressions  are  by  no  means 
always  the  best  or  even  the  dearest,  but  still  they  are  the 
first,  and  as  such  have  a  certain  exhilaration  about  them 


8o 


Italian  Cities 


sometimes  that  you  would  like  to  have  repeated,  if  it  were 
possible.  You  mount  the  slope  to  the  Via  della  'itta 
again,  turn  to  your  left  up  the  Via  dei  Peregrini,  march 
on  past  the  enti«.ing  looking  door  of  S.  Giovanni,  turn  a 
sharp  bend,  and  lo!  the  Duomo  itself!  There  is  a  stone 
seat  running  round  the  side  of  the  square,  and  so  you  seat 
yourself  as  luxuriously  as  may  be  directly  in  front  of  the 
great  facade  and  try  to  study  its  detail.  Few  architec- 
tural studies  in  Europe  are  more  fascinating.  But  what 
an  utterly  hopeless  task  it  would  be  to  attempt  for  a 
moment  to  describe  it!  To  the  first  amazed  sweep  of  the 
eye  it  stands  out  in  the  bright  sunlight  as  a  great  blaze  of 
lovely  color.  Then  as  it  takes  shape  you  see  the  Gothic 
lines  designed  by  Niccola's  son  Giovanni  Pisano,  the  three 
gables  filled  each  with  a  bright  colored  mosaic,  the  statues 
and  pillars  of  curious  stones,  and  all  the  richly  ornate 
beauty  that  master  artists  could  devise  by  cunning  har- 
monies of  red,  black  and  wLte  marble. 

How  it  is  that  the  human  mind  can  take  pleasure  now 
in  the  simple  lines  of  a  Greek  temple  and  again  in  the 
infinitely  detailed  adornment  of  this  cathedral  might  be 
hard  to  say.  The  truly  classic  eye  might  be  troubled  at 
this  riot  of  color.  Witness  Mr.  Joseph  Addison,  who 
stood  here  something  over  two  hundred  years  ago.' 
"There  is  nothing  in  this  city,"  he  says,  "so  extraordi- 
nary as  the  cathedral,  which  a  man  may  view  with  pleas- 
ure after  he  has  seen  St.  Peter's,  though  it  is  quite  of 
another  make,  and  can  only  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  Gothic  architecture.  When  a  man  sees 
the  prodigious  pains  and  expense,  that  our  forefathers 


>  He  would  see  the  church  as  it  is  now  except  for  the  mosaics  in  the 
gables.    They  were  added  In  1878. 


! 


Siena 


8i 


have  been  at  in  these  barbarous  buildings,  one  cannot  but 
fancy  to  himself  what  miracles  of  architecture  they  wou'.d 
have  left  us  had  they  been  only  instructed  in  the  /ight 
way."  What,  one  wonders,  would  the  good  Spectators' 
conception  of  "the  right  way"  have  been!  He  goes  on 
gravely  and  profitably  enough,  "One  would  wonder  to  see 
the  vast  labor  that  has  been  laid  out  on  this  single 
cathedral.  The  very  spouts  are  laden  with  ort;aments; 
the  windows  are  formed  like  so  many  scenes  of  perspec- 
tive, with  a  multitude  of  little  pillars  retiring  one  behind 
another;  the  great  columns  are  finely  engraven  with  fruits 
and  foliage  that  run  twisting  about  them  from  the  very 
top  to  me  bottom.  The  whole  body  of  the  church  is 
chequered  with  different  lays  of  white  and  black  marble; 
the  pavement  curiously  cut  out  in  designs  and  scripture 
stories:  and  the  front  covered  with  such  a  variety  of 
figures,  and  overrun  with  so  many  little  mazes  and  laby- 
rinths of  sculpture,  that  nothing  in  the  world  can  make  a 
prettier  show  to  those  who  prefer  false  beauties,  and 
affected  ornaments,  to  a  noble  and  majestic  simplicity."  • 
And  without  any  disparagement  to  Addison,  whom  all 
men  love  w.ll,  one  may  prefer  the  judgment  of  Mr, 
Howells,  when  he  says  that  "if  we  had  a  little  of  that 
lavish  loveliness  in  one  structure  in  America,  the  richness 
of  that  one  would  impoverish  the  effect  of  all  the  othe'- 
buildings  on  the  continent." 

Altogether  you  are  inclined  to  rank  this  Duomo  of 
Siena  second  to  only  one  church  in  Italy,  St.  Mark's  in 
Venice.  It  is  bewildering  to  reflect  that  the  present  nave 
was  planned  as  the  transept  of  a  mighty  church  whose 
vastness  would  have  surpassed  anything  that  the  world  has 
>  Works,    (New  York,  i8;g),  Vcl.  II,,  p.  314. 


82 


Italian  Citic- 


yet  dreamed  of.  The  great  design  was  checked  by  the 
terrible  pestilence  of  1348,  the  Black  Death.  In  four 
months  that  awful  plague  carried  off  eighty  thousand  of 
the  population  of  Siena.  Within  the  walls  once  crowded 
with  houses  there  are  now  great  areas  of  tilled  land  where 
empty  and  desolate  sections  of  the  city  were  set  on  fire 
and  cleared  of  dwellings  after  the  pest.  One  wonders  how 
the  stricken  city  could  possiblv  have  recovered  itself  suffi- 
ciently to  complete  the  cathc  iral  even  on  its  reduced  plan. 
You  are  within  the  building  now,  walking  up  the  great 
nave.  Your  feelings  of  repose  are  greatly  hindered  by 
the  regular  horizontal  black  stripes,  the  alternate  rows  of 
black  and  white  marble  in  walls  and  columns.  But  ever, 
if  the  interior  has  not  the  glorious  beauty  of  the  exterior, 
it  is  impressi"e  beyond  most  churches,  a  fit  memorial  of 
Siena  in  her  prime.  There  beneath  the  dome  is  the  great 
pulpit  that  you  compared  not  long  ago  with  its  maker's 
first  masterpiece  in  Pisa.  And  here  is  a  little  chapel  that 
is  well  worth  some  study,  the  Capella  San  Giovanni,  vith 
Donatello's  bronze  "John  the  Baptist"  and  five  beautiful 
little  frescoes  by  Pinturicchio.  One  of  these  especially 
you  will  not  soon  forget.  It  is  Alberto  Aringhieri,  Knight 
of  Malta,  kneeling  in  prayer  on  a  thick  carpet  of  grass 
and  flowers  with  the  walls  and  towers  of  a  fair  city  in  the 
distant  background,  framed  in  by  rugged  cliffs  and  tropi- 
cal looking  trees  nearer  at  hand.  The  noble  face  of  the 
young  knight,  the  red  cross  on  his  breast,  the  bright 
armor,  the  idealized  beauty  of  city  and  landscape,  leave 
with  you  a  singularly  complete  and  pathetic  interpretation 
of  the  best  sides  of  the  age  of  chivalry, — that  age  of  chiv- 
alry which  was  even  then  passing  away,  if  it  had  not 
already  ceased  to  be. 


Siena 


«3 


Only  a  step  from  the  little  cbapel  is  the  door  leading 
to  the  great  library  cf  the  cathedral.  You  have  been  to'.d 
that  there  are  frescoes  there  illustrating  scenes  in  the  life 
of  the  famous  Sienese  pope,  Pius  '".,  better  known  as 
yEneas  Sylvius.  They  are  the  work  of  Pinturicchio,  the 
painter  of  your  "Knight  of  Malta,"  so  you  anticipate 
possible  pleasure.  You  enter, — and  what  a  wonder  is 
this!  lou  find  yourself  in  a  tumult  cf  ecstasy  more  im- 
mediate and  altogether  delightful  than  any  pictures  in  Italy 
have  hitherto  been  able  to  arouse  in  you.  It  is  indeed  a 
quite  unreasonable  and  objectionable  ecstasy,  for  Pintu- 
ricchio is  not  at  all  one  of  the  greatest  masters,  and  these 
frescoes  of  his  are  by  no  means  looked  upon  with  favor  by 
critics.  "As  figure-painting,"  says  our  infallible  Beren- 
son,  "they  scarcely  cot  1  be  worse.  Not  a  creature 
stands  on  his  feet,  not  a  body  exists ;  even  the  beauty  of 
his  women's  faces,  has  through  carelessness  and  thought- 
less, constant  repetition,  become  soured;  as  color  these 
frescoes  could  hardly  be  gaudier  or  cheaper."  Can  this 
be  true.?  Why  perhaps  it  is.  And  yet  strangely  enoug)  , 
you  care  not  one  whit,  for  )ou  have  been  transported  of  a 
sudden  into  fairyland;  you  are  back  again  in  the  golden 
age  of  childhood,  buried  in  a  most  enchanting  picture- 
book;  no  small  pictures  either,  but  great  bright-colored 
sections  of  wall  that  by  the  very  glory  of  their  broad 
space  and  gay  figures  laugh  at  criticism  and  carry  you 
into  a  magic  country  long  unvisited.  Jocund  memories  of 
Grimm  and  the  "Arabian  Nights"  throng  upon  you  and 
you  eagerly  drink  in  the  joy  of  this  pictured  tale  ol  /Eneas 
Sylvius.  You  know  little  of  him,  but  that  matters  nothing. 
He  was  doubtless  a  prince  aided  by  a  genie  or  by  a  fairy 
godmother,  ultimately  bound  to  wed  a  beautiful  princess. 


1  < 


84 


Italian  Cities 


Here  is  joyous  company  surely,  gay  ladies  and  gayer 
gentlemen  gathered  on  prancing  horses  to  celebrate  the 
hero's  departure  for  the  Council  of  Basle.  At  least  so 
they  say,  though  to  you  it  seems  more  like  a  wedding- 
feast  or  some  like  festival.  But  your  eye  runs  over  the 
heads  of  steeds  and  merrymakers  and  your  heart  beats 
fast  as  you  think  you  recog^iize  a  background  you  love 
well  in  a  favorite  tale  of  Kenneth  Grahame's.  The  familiar 
words  come  back  to  you, — words  that  you  had  always  felt 
must  be  the  description  of  a  real  picture.  "Meadow- 
land  came  first,  set  with  flowers,  blue  and  red,  like  gems. 
Then  a  white  road  ran,  with  wilful  uncalled  for  loops,  up 
a  steep  conical  hill,  crowded  with  towers,  bastioned  walls, 
and  belfries;  and  down  the  road  the  little  knights  came 
riding  two  and  two.  The  hill  on  one  side  descended  to 
water,  tranquil,  far-reaching  and  blue;  and  a  very  curly 
ship  lay  at  anchor,  with  one  mast  having  an  odd  sort  of 
crow's  nest  at  the  top  of  it."*  How  often  you  have 
turned  over  the  words  in  your  mind  for  very  joy  of  exquis- 
ite phrase  and  dainty  picturing,  and  now  could  this  be  the 
very  hill  and  city?  Alas,  no,  and  yet  the  spirit,  of  the 
words  is  the  spirit  of  the  picture.  There  are  the  little 
ships  riding  at  anchor,  the  fairy  towers  and  battlements, 
and  there  is  the  white,  many  curved  road  winding  up  the 
hill, — all  bathed  in  the  clear  air  and  radiant  lighi  that 
make  care  or  pain,  evil  or  foulness  seem  impossible,  quite 
of  another  and  lower  world.  Alas  for  the  little  hill  towns 
of  Italy !  How  far  are  they  from  this  ideal  brightness  and 
peace!  How  often  have  their  narrow  streets  run  blood, 
and  their  walls  echoed  to  moan  and  merciless  war  cry! 
Yet  they  had  their  peaceful  times  too,  and  since  the  sunny 

>  "Its  walls  were  as  of  Jasper,"  in  Kenneth  Grahame's  "Dream  Days." 


Siena 


85 


Italian  nature  forgets  quickly  they  were  doubtless  often  as 
happy  and  bright  as  this  one  that  is  "emptied  of  its  folk" 
on  so  fair  a  morning  to  bid  farewell  to  yEneas  Sylvius. 

But  one  cannot  describe  a  pleasure  so  purely  one  of 
fancy,  of  delight   in   bright   color,  of  joyous   romance. 
After  all  some  grave  persons  might  look  at  your  uncon- 
cealed glee  with  wonderment  and  scorn.     What  unseemly 
rejoicings,  they  would  say,  over  pictures  that  are  not  at 
all  to  be  ranked  with  the  masterpieces  of  Perugino  before 
which  you  stood  quite  unmoved  a  few  days  ago  in  Perugia ' 
Will  you  go  with  the  same  joy  do  you  think  from  room 
to  room  frescoed  by  Raphael  in  the  Vatican?     Or  will  you 
revel  so  openly  in  Titian,  in  Leonardo,  in  Michelangelo? 
And  if  you  must  sorrowfully  shake  your  head,  are  you  not 
confessing  to   a   depraved   delight  in  gaudy  mediocrity? 
It  is  a  serious  charge,  but  if  it  is  true  one  must  be  honest 
about  it;  pretense  is  never  more  vulgar  and  out  of  place 
than  in  the  presence  of  great  art.     Yet  you  do  not  believe 
that  it  is  true,  somehow.     You  do  not  rank  Pinturicchio 
with  Leonardo,  but  two  things  Pinturicchio  has  given  you 
for  which  you  genuinely  give  thanks,— a  genius  not  easily 
surpassed  for  showing  you  the  largeness,  the  exhilarating 
openness  of  the  world,  and  a  care-free  joy  of  soul  whi  :h 
shines  through  all  the  poor  drawing  and  gaudy  coloring 
pointed  out  by  the  critic.     For  this  enlargement  of  vision, 
for  this  breath  of  fresh  air,  for  these  bright  faces  and 
sunny  landscapes  you  rejoice  without  shame.     The  world 
would  surely  be  far  brighter  if  only  the  weak,  the  tired, 
the  disheartened  of  all  lands,  could  come  and  renew  their 
childhood,  not  with  Cinderella  and  the  Giant-Killer,  but 
with  ^neas  Sylvius  and  his  gay  company  in  this  cathedral 
library  of  old  Siena. 


'"li 


86 


Italian  Cities 


Just  look  now  into  the  Opera  del  Duomo,  the 
cathedral  museum.  There  are  many  precious  things 
here,  but  you  may  take  time  for  only  one  just  now, — one 
great  painting  that  you  must  certainly  see  before  you  enter 
upon  the  study  of  the  great  Florentine  painters.  In 
Florence  the  fame  of  Cimabue  and  Giotto  obscures  all 
other  artists  of  their  time;  to  the  Florentines  Cimabue 
gloriously  ended  the  line  of  ancient  painters  and  launched 
the  new  era  on  its  course  with  his  great  pupil.  And  the 
personality  and  influence  of  Giotto  justify  such  an  idea  so 
largely  that  it  is  hard  to  find  much  fault  with  it.  All  that 
our  visit  to  this  picture  in  Siena  will  do  will  be  to  illustrate 
the  truth  that  a  great  man  is  seldom  altogether  isolated  in 
his  thought  and  work.  There  is  a  mysterious  but  very 
real  solidarity  about  human  progress,  and  you  will  render 
poor  justice  to  a  great  leader  if  you  try  to  interpret  him 
as  a  phenomenon  quite  independent  of  his  fellows.  His 
genius  is  doubtless  his  own,  but  its  fruitfulness,  its  suc- 
cess, and  even  the  path  it  takes,  are  dependent  largely  on 
the  subtle  movements  of  heart  and  mind  in  those  about 
him.  Shakespeare  was  not  the  only  great  Elizabethan 
dramatist.  Titian  was  not  the  on'  great  Venetian  painter. 
Cromwell  was  not  the  only  great  upholder  of  the  rights  of 
Englishmen  against  Charles  I.  And  Giotto  was  not  the 
only  Tuscan  of  his  time  who  was  eagerly  reaching  for- 
ward to  a  new  realism,  a  new  beauty  in  art. 

On  the  second  floor  of  the  Opera  del  Duomo,  then, 
is  the  great  "Majestas"  Madonna  with  the  Holy  Child  and 
certain  saints,  painted  about  six  centuries  ago  by  Duccio 
di  Buoninsegna,  and  placed  over  the  high  altar  of  the 
cathedral  with  the  inscription  in  Latin — Holy  Mother  oj 
God,  do  thou  grant  peace  to  the  Sienese  and  life  to  Duccio, 


Siena 


87 


who  ha^  thus  painted  thee.'  Beside  the  Madonna  is  the  far 
more  interesting  series  of  twenty-six  smaller  pictures 
representing  the  life  of  Christ.  Every  one  of  them  will 
repay  study.  It  is  impossible  to  say  of  the  figures  in 
"The  Three  Marys"  or  "Christ  in  the  Garden"  or  "The 
Betrayal,"  that  there  is  decoration  but  no  reality  in  them, 
dignity  but  no  perspective,  devotion  of  spirit  but  no 
attempt  at  real  composition.  Duccio  shows  an  unques- 
tionable sense  for  reality,  perspective  and  natural  group- 
ings. He  was  no  mere  decorator,  and  the  new  light  shines 
through  his  stiff  figures  with  a  distinctness  and  power  only 
obscured  to  later  generations  by  the  radiant  genius  of 
Giotto.  Let  him  by  no  means  be  forgotten,  then.  He 
lacked  the  Florentine's  sense  for  beauty,  and  he  had  not 
the  vitality  or  the  touch  of  poetry  that  you  feel  in  the 
frescoes  of  Assisi  or  the  Arena  Chapel  in  Padua.  But  he 
was  a  worthy  artist,  one  of  the  notable  pioneers,  and  you 
will  understand  the  genius  of  Giotto  himself  the  better  for 
your  little  study  of  his  great  contemporary  of  Siena. 

If  you  walk  directly  from  the  Duomo  to  the  Church 
of  S.  Domenico,  that  is  as  directly  as  Italian  streets  ever 
permit  one  to  walk,  you  will  have  to  descend  into  a  hollow 
and  then  laboriously  climb  a  steep  incline  on  the  other 
side.  Siena,  like  the  other  wolf-city,  was  built  on  hills. 
You  are  going  to  enter  for  a  moment  into  another  phase 
of  Sienese  history  and  life,  and  that  a  very  famous  and 
important  one.  Siena  as  a  proud  republic,  the  greatest 
Tuscan  rival  of  thirteenth-century  Florence,  whose  citi- 
zens, allied  with  Florentine  exiles,  o. erthrew  the  Floren- 
tine Guelfs  themselves  at  Montaperti  in  1260, — all  this 


"« ii- 


'  Mater  Sancta   Dei,   sis    caussn    Senis    renuiei 
pinxit  ita. 


sis  Duccio  vita,   tc    quia 


88 


Italian  Cities 


4 


you  saw  reflected  in  the  Palazzo  della  Signoria.  The 
city's  artistic  pride,  her  love  of  the  beautiful,  her  loyalty 
to  the  church;  the  wealth  and  public  spirit  which  prevailed 
in  her  during  the  century  after  Montaperti,  you  have  seen 
in  the  cathedral.  Her  contribution  to  early  Tuscan  paint- 
ing you  have  studied  in  the  Opera  del  Duomo.  Now  you 
are  to  enter  the  church  which  is  inseparably  associated 
with  the  famous  saint  for  whom  Siena  would  doubtless 
have  cheerfully  sacrificed  all  of  her  other  glories,  the 
blessed  St.  Catherine. 

As  you  stand  by  the  church  of  S.  Domenico,  look 
across  the  valley  just  for  a  moment  at  the  cathedial.  It 
is  one  of  the  views  that  you  will  be  least  likely  to  forget, 
— the  red-tiled  roofs  sweeping  up  the  hill  and  topped  by 
the  glorious  marble  church  with  its  Campanile.  But  then 
you  turn  and  enter  the  quiet,  somber  building  beside  you 
and  in  a  moment  you  are  standing  by  the  chapel  of  St. 
Catherine.  The  great  Lombard  painter  Sodoma  has  left 
some  of  his  finest  paintings  here  to  aid  the  imagination  of 
the  devout,  and  the  church  is  so  very  quiet  that  it  is  not 
hard  to  idealize  the  good  saint  who  used  to  stand  here  in 
hoty  meditation.  It  was  in  this  chapel  that  she  received 
the  Stigmata,  the  marks  of  Christ's  suffering,  to  the  p^ous 
joy  of  her  Dominican  associates.  The  good  friars  had 
long  mourned  the  preference  in  this  regard  which  had  been 
shown  to  the  founder  of  the  rival  order  of  Franciscans, 
and  they  welcomed  with  grateful  Te  Deums  the  miracle 
which  proclaimed  the  sanctity  of  St.  Catherine  equal  to 
that  of  St.  Francis.  In  Sodoma's  pictures  the  artist's 
quick  feeling  for  beauty  has  perhaps  overcome  his  sense 
of  fitness.  A  Florentine  like  Filippino  Lippi  might  have 
better  represented   the  emaciation,   the  triumph  of  soul 


Siena 


89 


over  body  in  the  saint  who  at  the  age  of  six  flogged  her- 
self habitually,  who  at  the  age  of  twelve  abandoned  the 
use  of  meat,  at  the  age  of  fifteen  wine,  at  the  age  of 
twenty  br;ad,  living  on  uncooked  vegetables;  who  lived 
three  yea*  \  without  speaking;  and  who  wore  a  chain  of 
iron  until  1  ate  into  her  flesh.  But  if  Sodoma's  pictured 
face  of  St.  Catherine  is  not  quite  the  thin,  restrained  face 
of  the  ascetic  who  wore  herself  to  death  at  thirty-three, 
yet  its  sweet  ethereal  beauty  doubtless  represents  truly 
enough  the  gentle  lady's  real  beauty  of  soul.  As  she 
prays  for  the  beheaded  criminal  whose  soul  you  may  see 
borne  to  heaven  by  angels,  as  she  sinks  fainting  beneath 
the  agony  of  the  Stigmata,  as  she  gazes  up  in  ecstasy  at 
the  radiant  vision  of  the  Madonna  and  Child,  the  pure, 
pale  countenance  gives  you  a  message  of  real  saintliness 
and  beauty  that  perhaps  no  one  but  Raphael  could  have 
interpreted  so  rarely  as  Sodoma  does  here. 

In  a  silver  reliquary  is  preserved  the  head  of  the  saint. 
Poor  St.  Catherine's  mortal  remains  are  much  scattered. 
Mr.  Ilowells,  on  the  authority  of  the  Diario  Senese  of 
Girolamo  Gigli,  places  one  of  her  fingers  in  the  Certosa  at 
Pontignano,  "where  it  has  been  seen  by  many  to  their 
great  advantage,  with  the  wedding-ring  of  Jesuc  Christ 
upon  it.  Her  right  thumb  is  in  the  church  of  the  Domini- 
cans at  Camporeggi;  one  of  her  ribs  is  in  the  Cathedral 
at  Siena;  anothei-  in  the  church  of  the  Company  of  St. 
Catherine,  from  which  a  morsel  has  been  se.'  i  to  the  same 
society  in  the  city  of  Lima  in  Peru;  her  cervical  vertebra 
and  one  of  her  slippers  are  treasured  by  the  Nuns  of 
Paradise;  in  the  monastery  of  Saints  Dominic  and  Sixtus 
at  Rome  is  her  right  hand;  her  shoulder  is  in  the  convent 
of  St.  Catherine  at  Magnanopoli;  and  her  right  foot  is  in 


1 


1 1 


90 


Italian  Cities 


hi 


the  church  of  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo  at  Venice.  In  St. 
Catherine  at  Naples  are  a  shoulder  bone  and  a  finger" 
and  so  on,  to  the  great  marvel  of  any  poor  modern  who 
tries  to  be  guided  by  the  light  of  reason.  But  one  must 
not  be  prejudiced  against  the  saint  on  account  of  this 
veneration  of  her  bones.  There  are  many  worse  things 
in  the  world  than  the  reverence  paid  to  a  St.  Francis  or  a 
St.  Catherine.  Did  not  the  great  and  good  St.  Augustine 
aver  that  the  bones  of  St.  Stephen  wrought  seventy 
miracles  in  his  diocese,  five  of  them  being  resurrections 
of  the  dead?  Why  should  we  of  little  faith  deny  the  same 
virtue  to  the  bones  of  this  good  Saint  of  Siena?  ' '  Here, ' ' 
says  the  tablet  on  the  chapel  wall,  "she  remained  with- 
drawn from  the  world,  listening  to  the  divine  services  of 
the  Church,  and  here  continually  in  divine  colloquy  she 
conversed  familiarly  with  Jesus  Christ,  her  Spouse.  Here 
leaning  against  this  pilaster,  she  was  rapt  in  frequent 
ecstasies;  wherefore  this  pilaster  has  ever  since  been 
potent  against  the  infernal  furies,  delivering  many  pos- 
sessed of  devils." 

Towards  the  evening  of  one  lovely  day  you  stroll 
through  the  little  park,  the  Lizza,  and  out  on  the  earth- 
works of  Duke  Cosimo's  old  fortress  of  Santa  Barbara. 
It  was  built  by  Siena's  conqueror  soon  after  the  dreadful 
siege  which  ruined  her  and  almost  depopulated  her.  But 
the  tragic  memories  of  a  time  so  long  past  are  softened 
by  time,  and  the  dusty  Italian  soldiers  who  are  drilling  in 
the  court-yard,  the  stoutly-blowing  bandsmen  who  are 
practicing  on  their  instruments  in  some  concealed  comer, 
are  quite  oblivious  of  the  cruel  Spaniards  or  mercenaries 
who  threw  up  these  ramparts  long  ago  at  the  command 
of   the  Florentine  tyrant.     The   drill   hour   ends.     The 


Siena 


91 


young  soldiers  straggle  off  to  their  welcome  rest.  The 
last  brazen  blasts  from  the  band  close  the  discordant 
noises  from  beneath  your  perch.  You  are  left  with  the 
distant  fields,  the  orchards  just  below  you,  the  city  with 
its  Duomo  and  its  soaring  Mangia  tower,— all  full  of 
memories  of  old  Siena.  Then  as  from  the  box  thickets 
of  the  Villa  Medici  in  Rome,  and  as  from  the  cool  shelters 
of  the  Boboli  gardens  in  Florence,  breaks  from  a  grove 
the  prelude  of  a  nightingale,  true  and  sweet  and  full-toned 
as  the  song  of  the  wood-thrush  in  the  woods  at  home. 
You  let  your  spirit  go  out  to  it,  and  the  old  fancy  of  the 
bird's  immortality  comes  back  to  fit  into  your  musings 
about  the  fair  old  city,  and  its  age  upon  age  of  brave  life. 
The  music  of  Keats'  verse  makes  fit  accompaniment  to 
the  rich  notes  now  pouring  out  in  loveliest  melody  from 
the  hidden  perch  among  the  leaves. 

"  Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird/ 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
Tlie  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  selfsame  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 

She  stood  in  tears  amidst  the  alien  corn  ; 
Tlie  same  that  oft-times  hath 

Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 

Of  perilous  seas  in  fairy  lands  forlorn." 


i 

WWr 

CHAPTER   VI 

FLORENCE:  FROM  DANTE  TO  BOCCACCIO 

As  you  take  your  stand  on  the  heights  of  Fiesole  and 
look  down  on  the  valley  of  the  Arno  and  the  city  of  Flor- 
ence, you  see  a  city  very  different  from  the  one  that  Dante 
knew.  The  great  cathedral  dome,  uie  lovely  bell  tower, 
the  heavy  brown  palaces  would  all  be  strange  to  him. 
Only  the  outline  of  the  surrounding  hills,  the  curve  of  the 
river,  an  old  bridge,  a  spire,  a  tower,  and  perhaps  the 
general  aspect  of  the  red-tiled  roofs  would  be  familiar  to 
the  poet's  keen  eye  if  he  could  see  them  now.  His 
friend  Giotto  would  indeed  recognize  another  landmark, 
the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  but  its  gray  walls  were 
still  rising  under  the  direction  of  Arnolfo  when  Dante 
was  exiled  in  1302;  Giotto's  Campanile  was  only  begun 
when  its  designer  himself  died  in  1336,  fifteen  years  after 
Dante;  and  the  age  of  the  great  builders — the  Medici, 
the  Pitti,  the  Strozzi — was  all  yet  to  come.  Other  towers 
would  still  be  s  .nding,  though,  when  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury opened,  that  have  vanished  now, — the  towers  from 
which  powerful  families  and  their  retainers  watched  and 
fought  during  the  great  feuds  that  so  shook  and  tortured 
thirteenth-century  Florence ;  and  the  great  seer  would  in 
vain  now  strain  his  eyes  to  descry  some  sign  of  the  too 
familiar  brawls  and  battles  of  his  time,  or  his  ears  to  catch 
the  well-known  war-cries  of  the  rival  houses. 

For  the  Florence  of  Dante  was  far  from  being  the 
care-free,  well-behaved  city  that  it  is  now;  and  his  Italy 

92 


Florence:    From  Dante  to  Boccaccio        93 

was  far  from  enjoying  its  present  happy  state  of  peace 
and  unity.     You  iiave  already  in  Assisi  thought  over  some 
of  the  things  that  tended  to  make  the  centuries  from  the 
fifth  to  the  thirteenth  an  age  of  political  and  civil  confu- 
sion and  unrest,  and  the  considerations  that  you  dwelt  on 
then  you  saw  to  be  true  to  a  greater  or  less  degree  of  all 
Europe.     But  Italy  for  several  reasons  passed  through 
experiences   and    developed    conditions    and    tendencies 
which  made  her  fortune  very  different  from  that  of  the 
rest  of  the  continent.     The  Germans  entered  and  influ- 
enced Italy  as  they  did  Gaul,  Britain,  and  Spain,  but  no 
tribe  ever  conq  .ered  Italy  as  entirely  and  permanently  as 
the  Franks  did  Gaul.     The  Ostrogoths  and  the  Lombards 
almost  did  it,  but  both  failed,  the  one  in  permanence  and 
the  other  in  completeness,  and  no  power  ever  came  to 
rescue  Italy  from  confusion  as  the  Normans  in  cruel  mercy 
came  to  divided  England.     Instead  of  this  she  had  the  two 
empires,  one  at  Constantinople  and  one  north  of  the  Alps, 
pulling  her  in  different  directions,  and  the  great  spiritual 
power  of  the  papacy  in  her  midst,  none  of  them  quite 
strong   enough   to  overcome  the   others   and   unite   the 
country  in  one  coherent  state.  (This  lack  of  any  prevail- 
ing unifying  center  strikes  us  all  through  the  Middle  Ages 
in  Italy,— is  perhaps   the  greatest    single  curse   of  the 
country.  \ 

Take,  for  instance,  the  life  of  Dante  himself.  If  we 
could  follow  him  in  every  detail  of  his  career  in  Florence 
as  citizen,  partisan,  member  of  the  governing  body,— in 
Arezzo  as  exile,  passionately  eager  for  return  to  his  city,— 
in  Verona  as  friend  and  dependent  of  a  great  lord,  return 
to  Florence  put  aside  as  a  dream  not  to  be  treasured, 
brooding  over  torn  and  savagely  quarreling  Italy,  pouring 


i  i 

i    i 

i  Hi 


I" 

¥ 


¥ 


94 


Italian  Cities 


i 


out  his  great  heart  in  immortal  verse,  now  and  then  turn- 
ing his  pen  or  his  voice  into  practical  politics  when  he 
seemed  to  be  needed, — if  we  could  thus  follow  his  life  we 
should  have  a  living  appreciation  of  what  Italy  was  in  the 
later  Middle  Ages, — a  group  of  little  cities  and  states  that 
remind  us  of  ancient  Greece  in  their  intense  local  inde- 
pendence, their  keen  vitality,  their  restless  ambition, 
and  their  bitter  and  cruel  party  divisions.  Italy  was 
intensely  alive  in  that  thirteenth  century;  that  was  its 
most  hopeful  characteristic;  and  that  this  life  was  real 
and  fruitful  was  abundantly  proved  by  the  number  of 
great  men  that  she  produced  in  rapid  succession  for 
the  next  three  hundred  years.  But  she  was  terribly 
and  wastefully  subdivided.  The  wars  of  Florence  with 
Fiesole,  Hire  those  of  Athens  with  Salamis,  are  as  if  New 
York  wafjCd  war  on  Newark,  Boston  on  Gloucester  or 
Marblehead.  In  Tuscany  alone,  a  region  smaller  than 
Maryland  and  little  la-ger  than  New  Jersey,  there  might 
be  a  dozen  cities  in  constant  hostility,  between  whom  at 
any  moment  the  flame  of  fierce  war  might  flash  out.  In 
the  great  confederacy  that  made  war  on  Pisa  in  1284, 
when  Dante  was  nineteen  years  of  age,  that  war  which 
ended  Pisa's  greatness  and  almost  annihilated  her,  there 
were  five  cities  engaged,  of  whom  the  nearest  to  her  was 
Lucca,  ten  miles  distant,  and  the  farthest  Genoa,  about 
ninety  miles,  practically  the  distance  from  Philadelphia  to 
New  York. 

In  all,  one  may  say — and  this  is  part  of  the  reason  for 
the  constant  quarrels — the  same  public  questions  existed: 
for  pope  or  emperor;  for  prince  or  republic;  for  Italian 
independence  or  foreign  intervention;  for  nobles  or  people. 
And  the  party  uppermost  in  one  city  usually  aided  its 


hlorence:    From  Dante  to  Boccaccio 


95 


friends  and  fought  its  opponents  in  other  cities.  Imagine 
Tammany  Hall  leading  the  Democrats  of  New  York  to 
overthrow  in  battle  the  rampant  Republicanism  of  Phila- 
delphia, and  you  will  have  a  home  parallel  of  Guelf  Flor- 
ence seeking  to  destroy  Ghibelline  Siena.  The  origin  of 
these  two  famous  parties  is  of  but  little  interest.  /The 
Guelfs  stood  in  the  main  for  jealousy  of  foreign  influence, 
local  and  national  pride,  and  conservative  democracy;  the 
Ghibellines,  more  doubtfully,  for  unity,  for  strong,  central- 
ized government,  and  for  aristocracy. ^  The  Guelfs  usually 
looked  to  the  pope  for  a  certain  patronage  and  leadership, 
the  Ghibellines  to  the  emperor.  But  these  main  divisions 
were  constantly  obscured  by  special  local  conditions.  A 
city  whose  enemy  and  rival  was  intensely  Guelf  was  led 
simply  because  of  that  fact  to  range  itself  on  the  side  of 
the  Ghibellines,  though  they  might  be  quite  equal  in 
patriotism  and  republican  enthusiasm.  A  Ghibelline 
might  find  himself  fighting  against  an  emperor,  or  a  Guelf 
against  the  cause  of  the  pope.  Still  the  main  party  divis- 
ions were  as  just  laid  down. 

Florence  under  normal  conditions  was  decidedly  Guelf. 
But  there  was  a  strong  Ghibelline  faction  which  was  able 
to  cause  trouble  and  occasionally  hold  the  upper  hanH.     In 

1249  the  Guelf  leaders  were  vanquished  and  exiled.     In 

1250  they  returned  and  banished  the  Ghibellines.  Ten 
years  later,  the  Ghibellines,  securing  help  from  the  German 
king  of  Sicily,  son  of  an  emperor  (Frederick  II.)  and  nat- 
ural patron  of  the  Imperial  party,  met  the  Florentine  Guelfs 
in  a  great  battle  at  Montaperti  by  the  river  Arbia,  and  won  a 
victory  that  for  the  moment  seemed  final  and  crushing.  But 
a  French  army,  hostile  to  the  emperor,  and  so  hostile  to  the 
Ghibellines,  marching  south  to  the  conquest  of  Sicily,  soon 


96 


Italian  Cities 


re-established  the  Guelfs,  and  Florence  was  a  free  Guelf 
republic  when  Dante  Alighieri  was  born  in  1265.  It  re- 
mained so  during  the  rest  of  the  century,  so  that  it  was  as 
a  Guelf  that  Dante  rose  to  manhood  and  did  his  duties  as 
citizen  and  magistrate  up  to  his  thirty-fifth  year  and  after. 
But  then  the  fatal  Italian  tendency  to  feud  and  dissensions 
'  jlit  the  Florentines  again, and  two  rival  families, the  Cerchi 
vind  the  Donati, began  to  trouble  the  city  with  their  quarrels 
as  the  Montagues  and  Capulets  did  Verona  in  the  days  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  In  the  neighboring  city  of  Pistoia 
long  before,  a  noble  citizen  after  the  death  of  his  wife 
Bianca  married  again.  The  descendants  of  his  first  wife, 
who  called  themselves  after  her  Bianchi,  or  Wiiites,  gradu- 
ally fell  away  from  those  descended  from  his  second  wife, 
who  by  way  of  marking  themselves  off  from  their  cousins, 
called  themselves  Neri — Blacks.  As  these  two  divisions 
of  a  great  family  became  ever  fiercer  and  were  a  constant 
disturbance,  Florence  stepped  in  to  try  the  part  of  concili- 
ator, and  it  seemed  best  to  her  to  move  the  heads  of  both 
families  to  Florence  so  that  the  heat  of  dissension  might 
the  more  easily  die  away  in  Pistoia.  Alas  for  good  inten- 
tions! The  heads  of  tne  Neri  faction  went  to  live  with 
their  friends  the  Donati;  of  the  Bianchi  went  to  the 
Cerchi,  and  the  rival  Florentine  families  at  once  took  u  j 
the  cause  of  their  guests,  adopting  their  distinctive  parcy 
names.  Florence  now,  instead  of  Pistoia,  was  split  from 
top  to  bottom  by  the  feud  of  Whites  and  Blacks.  Dante 
was  a  White.  Collision  after  collision  between  the  two 
factions  shook  the  city's  peace.  At  last,  after  one  or  two 
changes  of  fortune,  the  Blacks  remained  victors,  and 
Dante  and  the  leading  Whites  went  into  lifelong  exile. 
For  a  time  they  waited  at  Arezzo,  plotting,  hoping,  turn- 


Florence;    From  Dante  to  Boccaccio       97 

ing  even  to  the  Ghibellines  for  help,  until  Dante,  in 
despair,  broke  with  them,  and  began  the  life  of  restless 
wandering  that  only  ceased  with  his  death  in  Ravenna  in 
1321. 

One  special  point  is  perhaps  worthy  of  a  moment's 
attention  here  before  you  turn  to  other  things,— Dante  as 
a  Ghibelline,  a  believer  in  the  emperor.     Dante  is  often 
called  the  great  Ghibelline  poet,  and  yet  for  a  great  part 
of  his  life  he  was  entirely  Guelf,  and  it  m  \y  be  doubted 
whether  he  ever  considered  himself  a  Ghibelline.     It  was 
only  the  misery  of  exile  that  threw  him  into  the  ranks  of 
the  Ghibellines,  and  it  was  as  an  exile,  feeling  bitterly  in 
his  own  person  the  anarchy  and  petty  divisions  of  Italy, 
that  he  turned  to  the  one  hope  of  unity,  the  imperial 
power,  and  welcomed  the  emperor,  Henry  VII.,  when  he 
descended  from  the  Alps  to  try  again  to  realize  the  hope- 
less  dream  of  uniting  Italy  and  Germany  in  one  Empire. 
"Behold,"  cried  Dante,'  "now  is  the  accepted  time,  in 
which  the  signs  of  consolation  and  peace  arise.     For  a 
new  day  grows  bright,  revealing  a   dawn  that   already 
lessens  the  gloom  of  long  calamity.     Already  the  eastern 
breezes  grow  stronger;  the  lips  of  heaven  grow  ruddy  and 
strengthen  the  auguries  of  the  people  with  a  caressing 
tranquillity.     And  even  we,  who  so  long  have  passed  our 
nights  in  the  desert,  sh?ll  behold  the  gladness  for  which 
we  have  longed.     Then  be  ye  all  vigilant  and  rise  up  to 
meet  your  king!"     A  bright  hope  that  faded  before  Dante 
himself  died. 

The  "Divine   Comedy"   was  begun   before  Dante's 

iri  '"V.!"'  '9,  "V?  Pf'nces  and  Peoples  of  Italy,"  id  Latham's  'Dante's 
Trl^l'L'jKr^  I^"?-  perhaps  the  most  helpful  and  suggestive  of  all  brief  and 
accessible  studies  of  Dante  is  the  essay  contained  in  Church's  "Dante, and 


98 


Italian  Cities 


exile  in  1 302,  and  gradually  during  the  next  nineteen 
years  it  took  shape  as  the  supreme  interpretation  of  the 
age  that  was  passing  away.  Some  time  you  will  study  it 
in  detail.  One  or  two  things  you  should  note  about  it  even 
now  that  will  help  to  make  clearer  its  place  in  the  develop- 
ment of  Italy.  \In  the  first  place,  it  is  well  to  see  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  mtense  reality  of  the  future  life,  to  Dante 
and  to  his  age.  \  Hell  is  painted  with  the  detail  and  cer- 
tainty of  touch  that  one  might  expect  in  a  description  of 
Florence  herself.  The  existence  a. id  character  of  the  devils 
was  no  more  to  be  questioned  than  the  existence  and  char- 
acter of  the  English  or  the  Germans.  And  one  realizes, 
too,  that  if  all  this  is  true,  if  Dante's  Hell,  Purgatory,  and 
Paradise  represent  his  fundamental  conviction  and  that  of 
his  age,  regarding  the  life  after  death,  then  they  are  right 
and  natural  in  ignoring  all  things  except  those  pertaining 
to  salvation.  If  fleshly  lusts,  heresy,  violence,  worldly 
ambitions,  mean  eternal  torment  in  a  hell  as  real  as  this 
earth,  only  never  ending,  then  nothing  could  be  more 
foolish  than  the  yielding  to  them,  nothing  more  detestable 
than  encouragement  of  them.  The  life  of  this  world,  with 
its  fleeting  pleasures,  becomes  a  contemptible  nothing — 
three-score  years  and  ten  beside  eternity!  The  virtues 
that  mean  Paradise  are  above  all  else  to  be  desired.  The 
vices  that  mean  Hell  are  above  all  else  to  be  stamped  out. 
It  becomes  of  interest,  then,  to  find  out  what  according 
to  Dante  would  condemn  a  man  to  Hell  and  what  fit  him 
for  Paradise.  Three  main  causes  of  condemnation  you 
will  find  in  even  a  first  reading  of  the  "Inferno" — malice, 
or  badness  of  heart ;  the  yielding  to  pleasures  of  the  flesh 
in  any  form;  and  alienation  from  Christ  and  his  Church. 
Thus,  under  the  first  head  are  condemned  the  evil  tem- 


Florence:    From  Dante  to  Boccaccio 


99 


I 
■I 


ii 


pered,  the  defamers,  even  the  crafty,  like  the  noble  but 
cunning  Ulysses;  under  the  second  head  the  gluttons,  the 
luxurious,  or  those  like  Francesca  da  Rimini,  whom  the 
world  has  gladly  pardoned,  but  whom  the  stern  poet  con- 
demns even  while  pitying;  and  under  the  third,  th^  pagans 
of  antiquity  are  condemned  with  modern  unbelievers  like 
Farinata  or  Cavalcanti,  no  matter  what  their  virtues  might 
be.     In  each  case  the  judgment  is  unrelenting  and  abso- 
lute.    Ignorance,  private  and  public  virtue  are  of  no  avail 
as  excuses.     Sins  of  the  heart,  of  the  flesh,  and  of  the 
intellect  that  are  unpardoned,  definitely  and  absolutely 
condemn  the  sinner  to  unending  torment.  \Here  a    else- 
where Dante's  verdict  is  that  of  his  age  rigid  and  uncom- 
promising, with  no  concession  to  the  i.ioral  standards  of 
the  world, — and  note  the  result.  Sins  of  the  heart  can  only 
be  purged  by  faith,  by  devotion,  by  unwearying  self-denial 
and  attention  to  the  example  of  Christ  and  the  saints. 
Sins  of  the  flesli  can  only  be  conquered  by  a  stem  crucify- 
ing of  the  flesh,  by  asceticism,  by  turning  away  from  the 
vanities  of  the  world,  by  answering  the  tender  appeals  of 
the  senses  with  the  scourge  and  bitter  austerities.     Sins 
of  the  mind — questionings  that  may  result  in  eternal  hell- 
are  only  to  be  avoided  by  absolute  faith  in  Christ  and  the 
voice  of  the  Church.     These  are  the  logical  results  of 
Dante's  creed.  ^The  man  who  lived  up  to  it  absolutely, 
the  man  worthy  of  Dante's  Paradise,  the  St.  Francis,  the 
St.  Dominic,  the  St.  Louis  of  France,  was  in  conduct  a 
saint,  and  in  the  intellectual  world  a  man  who  schooled 
himself  never  to  ask  the  question  why. 

But  if  Dante  reflects  this  lofty,  uncompromising  medi- 
eval ideal  and  the  sad  inability  of  most  men  to  at  all  attain 
it ;  if  he  portrays  a  system  of  creation  which  condemned 


lOO 


Italian  Cities 


with  terrible  certainty  the  vast  majority  of  mankind  to 
eternal  torment;  if  the  law  is  to  him  so  unyielding  that 
popes  are  not  saved  by  their  tiara,  nor  poets  and  philoso- 
phers by  their  loftiness  of  soul,  yet  he  himself  shows  all 
unconsciously  the  beginnings  of  the  end  of  this  stern,  nar- 
row attitude  to  life  and  eternity.  For  he  painted  it  with 
such  uncompromising  and  fatal  clearness  that  whoever 
read  the  "Inferno"  had,  as  it  were,  been  there  and  talked 
with  hell's  woeful  citizens.  And  human  life,  human  emo- 
tions, human  aims,  and  ways  of  looking  at  things,  come 
in  so  visibly  and  humanly  all  through,  that  in  spite  of  your- 
self you  break  through  the  hard  theology  of  it,  and  find 
yourself  following  the  narrative  in  eager  sympathy  here, 
in  horror  there,  in  warm  contact  with  reality  everywhere. 
Ideas,  doctrines,  systems,  that  are  once  clearly  inter- 
preted, are,  just  because  man  is  infinite  and  because  "his 
reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, ' '  ready  at  once  to  give  way 
to  ideas  and  systems  that  -ve  larger  and  more  adequate. 
"When  the  soul  becomes  visible,  the  body  is  ready  to 
drop  away." ' 

A  curious  instance  of  the  new  indepc  once  and  indi- 
vidualism which  is  characteristic  of  Dante  is  in  the  third 
canto  of  the  "Inferno."  Dante,  guided  by  Virgil,  had 
barely  eii^ered  the  terrible  gates  when  "strange  tongues, 
horrible  outcries,  words  of  pain,  tones  of  anger,  voices 
deep  and  hoarse,  and  sounds  of  hands  amongst  them, 
made  a  tumult  which  turns  itself  unceasing  in  that  air  for- 
ever dyed,  as  sand  when  it  eddies  in  a  whirlwind.  And 
I,  my  head  begirt  with  horror,  said:  'Master,  what  is  this 

•See  the  noble  essay  on  Dante  in  Caird's  "Literary  and  Philosophical 
Essays,"  vol.  I.    To  those  who  have  access  to  "Queen's  Quarterly,"  vol.  1., 
''atson's  "Lectures  on  Dante"    will  also   be  most  suKzestive.    They  will 
ouubtless  be  ibsued  in  book  form  soon. 


^:ij 


! 

[ 


I 


Florence:   From  Dante  to.  Boccaccio      loi 

that  I  hear?  and  who  a         ese  that  seem  so  overcome 
with  pain?'     Ard  he  to  me.  'This  miserable  mode  the 
dreary  souls  of  those  sustain,  who  lived  without  blame, 
and  without   praise.     They  are   mixed  with  that  caitiff 
choir  of  the  angels  who  were  not   rebellious  nor  were 
faithful  to  God,  but  were  for  themselves.     Heaven  chased 
them  forth  to  keep  its  beauty  from  impair;  and  the  deep 
Hell  receives  them  not.  for  the  wicked  would  have  some 
glory  over  them.'  "     How  strangely  modem  is  this  con- 
ception  of  the  "crew  of  caitiffs  who  never  were  alive, 
hateful  to  Goa  and  to  his  enemies."     It  is  the  idea  of 
Kipling's  "Tomlinson."  of  Browning's  "Statue  and  the 
Bust,"  an  emphasis  of  individualism,  of  that  positive 
character    development    whose    neglect    may    be    more 
shameful  than  actual   crime.      Nothing  could   be   more 
unmedieval. 

Yet  we  must  not  press  this  so  far  as  to  suppose  that 
this  passionate  Florentine  who  comfo..ed  his  unresting 
mmd  m  exile  by  painting  his  time  in  living  semblance  on 
t:.e  background  of  Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise,  saw  that 
he  was  lielping  to  open  the  way  to  a  new  era.     He  was 
no  more  conscious  of  it  than  was  St.  Francis.     His  blows 
against  the   symbolism,   the   difficulty  of  thinking  in   a 
human  earthly  way,  the  stern  theology,  the  indifference 
to  mdividual  development,  the  narrow  horizon  of  thought, 
the  neglect  of  liberal  culture  which  were  characteristic  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  were  dealt  all  unconsciously.     He  was 
not  a  critic,  but  an  interpreter.     He  shows  us  the  thir- 
teenth century  and  the  coming  tides  of  new  thought  too 
but  the  signs  of  the  new  time  are  latent,  implicit,  uncon- 
scious.    To  quote  the  Master  of  Balliol  again,  "Dante 
interprets  the  religion  of  the  cloister,  in  such  a  way  as  to 


I02 


Italian  Cities 


I 


,;il! 


carry  us  beyond  it.  His  Divina  Cotnmedia  may  be  com- 
pared to  the  portal  of  a  great  cathedral,  through  which  we 
emerge  from  the  dim  religious  light  of  the  Middle  Ages 
into  the  open  day  of  the  modern  world,  but  emerge  with 
the  imperishable  memory  of  those  harmonics  of  form  and 
color  on  which  we  have  been  gazing,  and  with  the  organ 
notes  that  lifted  our  soul  to  heaven  still  sounding  in  our 
ears." 

And  what  of  ''^e  art  in  which  Florence  was  to  shine 
with  such  splendor  in  the  times  to  come?  Surely  the 
growing  life  that  could  produce  Francis  and  Dante,  and 
that  could  see  in  Pisa  the  revival  of  reality  and  beauty  in 
sculpture,  would  act  in  some  measure  on  the  sister  art  of 
painting.  Not  that  there  was  not  some  beauty  in  medi- 
eval painting.  Much  of  the  old  technical  skill  had  been 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  in  Constanti- 
nople, and  Byzantine  masters  or  Italians  who  had  studied 
under  them,  were,  during  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies, careiuUy  and  skilfully  adorning  churches  throughout 
the  peninsula  with  frescoes  that  still  fascinate  us  with  their 
quaint,^teliness.  They  could  do  exquisite  mosaic  work 
too.  And^yet  few  who  come  to  these  old  works  of  art 
for  the  first  time  are  able  to  admire  them.  They  seem  to 
our  eyes  by  no  means  beautiful,  and  quite  dead  in  their 
stiffness  and  uiireality.  These  Madonnas  and  saints  have 
the  shapes  of  Wv  .len  and  men  indeed,  but  they  are  painted 
in  somber  colors  un  a  gold  background,  with  heads  always 
at  an  angle  and  with  long,  narrow  eyes,  without  expres- 
sion, without  real  human  existence.'  They  were  the 
product  of  a  demand  for  church  adornment  that  would 
awaken  the  souls  of  the  worshipers  to  heavenly  not  earthly 

'See  the  first  chapter  of  Sir  Martin  Conway's  "  Early  Tuscan  Art." 


Florence:    From  Dante  to  Boccaccio      103 


beauty;  devotion,  not  pleasure  of  the  eye;  -levout  yearning 
for  the  life  to  come,  not  joy  in  this  transient  world  with 
its  temptations  to  momentary  material  bliss.  The  medi- 
eval artist,  then,  in  so  far  as  he  was  an  artist,  had  a  severe 
task  before  him.  (His  only  patron  was  the  Church,  and 
the  Church  demanded  the  elimination  of  both  earthly 
beauty  and  xeality.\  Nothing  was  left  but  such  decorative 
beauty  as  would  deepen  the  solemnity,  the  dignity,  the 
mystery,  the  drawing  of  the  mind  to  higher  things  and  to 
the  world  to  come  that  was  deemed  fitting  in  a  building 
designed  for  the  worship  of  God  and  the  contemplation 
of  Eternity.  This  much  was  attained  in  the  best 
medieval  art.  It  does  add  to  the  old  churches  a  stately, 
pathetic,  unearthly  kind  of  beauty.  But  often  the  artist, 
taught  to  forget  beauty  of  line  and  color  and  reality,  com- 
pelled to  adopt  the  severe  standards  handed  down  to  him 
by  his  master^  and  demanded  by  the  Church,  produced 
only  ugliness. 

No  freedom  or  life  could  be  expected  in  painting  until 
Europe  should  escape  from  the  age  of  con^'usion,  until  her 
thoughtful  men  should  have  once  more  the  realization  that 
it  was  not  the  sole  duty  of  mankind  to  propitiate  an  angry 
deity,  and  prepare  for  heaven.  You  are  prepared  to  see 
this  change  coming  in  the  thirteenth  century,  especially 
after  your  little  study  of  Niccola  Pisano.  And  you  do  not 
look  in  vain.  For  what  saith  our  good  friend  Giorgio 
Vr.sari,  our  diligent  sixteenth-century  chronicler  and  gos- 
siper?  "The  endless  flood  of  misfortunes  which  over- 
whelmed unhappy  Italy  not  only  ruined  everything  worthy 
of  the  name  of  a  building,  but  completely  extinguished 
the  race  of  artists,  a  far  more  serious  matter.  Then,  as 
it  pleased  God,  there  was  born  in  the  year  1 240,  in  the 


I04 


Italian  Cities 


city  of  Florence,  Giovanni,  surnamed  Cimabue,  to  shed 
the  first  light  on  the  art  of  painting." 

In  the  great  Dominican  church  of  Santa  Maria  Novella 
— a  church  which  contains  more  things  of  interest  and 
profit  than  you  will  be  able  to  glance  at  in  your  pres- 
ent study — you  will  find  the  famous  old  painting  which 
tradition  says  was  done  by  Cimabue  and  borne  amid 
ecstatic  rejoicings  to  its  present  home.  Whether  this  is 
really  Cimabue 's'  or  whether  it  is  another,  done  by  a 
Sienese  painter,  Duccio,  can  matter  very  little  to  us. 
Cimabue,  who  was  Giotto's  master,  has  become  really 
little  more  than  a  great  name,  to  whom  these  works  have 
been  traditionally  ascribed  for  centuries,  and  to  whom  we 
may  still  ascribe  them  for  convenience.  For  we  know 
nothing  about  them  with  certainty.  We  simply  have 
Dante's  testimony,  "Once  in  painting  Cimabue  held  the 
field,  now  all  the  cry  is  for  Giotto,"  and  very  definite 
tradition  to  assure  us  that  this  great  old  Florentine  was 
thought  in  his  time  to  have  gathered  together  in  his  work 
all  that  was  great  in  the  old  methods  and  to  have  shad- 
owed forth  the  coming  artistic  ideals  of  beauty  and 
reality.  In  this  Rucellai  Madonna  and  in  Duccio  it  is 
easier  to  see  that  here  is  the  old  Byzantine  work  at  its  best 
than  to  see  the  coming  life.  For  with  all  the  stateliness 
and  pathos  of  the  famous  old  picture,  there  is  little  beauty 
in  it  in  the  later  sense.  There  is  a  Madonna  in  Assisi, 
indeed,  said  to  be  by  Cimabue,  that,  with  all  its  stiffness 
and  slanting  bead  and  narrow  eyes  and  gold  background, 

1  It  would  be  hard  to  find  any  painting  that  can  with  absolute  certainty 
be  ascribed  to  Cimabue.  But  Duccio  of  ^iena,  whom  we  may  study  in  per- 
fectly authentic  works,  belongs  to  the  same  age,  and  there  are  frescoes  in 
Assisi  too- in  the  church  of  St.  Francis- which  Illustrate  exactly  the  same 
features  of  artistic  development  that  you  find  in  the  Santa  Maria  Novella 
Madonna— the  Rucel'ai  Madonna,  as  it  is  called. 


8  , 


m 


irifl 


Li 


:^^W. 


Florence:   From  Dante  to  Boccaccio      105 

is  wonderfully  impressive,  aid  above  in  the  upper  church ' 
a  sadly  blurred  figure  of  Abraham,  standing  with  uplifted 
knife  over  the  altar,  life  and  energy  in  every  line.  So 
with  some  of  Duccio's  groups  there  is  an  occasional  aban- 
donment  of  the  old  stiff  unreal!.,,- -a  real  effort  to  see 
things  as  they  are,  which  is  a  sure  prophecy  of  the  dawn 
of  modern  art.  But  it  is  prophecy  only,  not  fulfilment. 
These  old  paintings  are  simply,  after  all,  medieval  art  at 
its  best,  producing  its  fairest  flower  at  the  moment  of 

perishing. 

But  if  you  are   in  Assisi,   look  from  the  Cimabue 
Madonna  to  the  scenes  from  the  life  of  St.  Francis  done 
a  little  later  by  Cimabue's  pupil  Giotto.     Or  if  you  are 
here  in  Florence  go  from  the  Rucellai  Madonna  to  the 
Giotto   frescoes  in   Santa    Croce.     Or  later  on,  if  you 
should  be  going  to  Venice,  drop  off  at  Padua  and  see 
Giotto's    frescoes    of   scenes   from    the    life   of  Chnst. 
You  will  find  in  all  these  a  totally  new  point  of  view. 
Here  at  last  is  a  painter  who  tries  to  paint  things  as  they 
are.     He  was  first  found  by  Cimabue,  it  is  said,  as  a  little 
shepherd  boy,  trying  to  draw  one  of  his  sheep  on  a  smooth 
stone.     It  was  a  true  omen  of  his  mission  as  an  artist. 
His  figures  are  often  stiff,  it  is  true,  and  his  faces  have 
often  the  set  look  that  recalls  the  Byzantine  work.     Even 
his  perspective  is  none  too  perfect.     But  the  real  point  is 
that  he  tries— with  entire  success  too— to  make  his  men 
and  women  living  human  beings,  not  decorative  figures, 
that  he  tries  to  make  his  face?  show  forth  human  thoughts 
and  emotions,  not  simply  holy  contemplation,  and  that  he 
realizes  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  perspective.     At  last 

Giotto  and  by  the  painters  that  preceded  him. 


£o6 


Italian  Cities 


human  beauty  and  artistic  reality  were  come  to  earth 
again.  At  last  men's  eyes  were  opened  to  the  marvels 
that  lay  about  and  within  them,  to  the  earth  beneath  and 
around  them  as  well  as  the  heaven  that  might  await  their 
coming. 

Giotto  was  more  than  a  painter.  All  the  world 
knows  that  we  owe  to  him  the  lovely  bell-tower  that  rose 
in  the  center  of  the  city  during  the  years  that  followed 
his  death.  He  only  lived  to  design  and  begin  it,  but 
that  others  could  take  his  conception  and  carry  it  out 
in  this  marvel  of  grace  and  color  is  proof  in  itself 
that  his  spirit  lived  after  him.  No  one  came  for  a  time 
who  had  at  all  his  head,  or  eye,  or  brain,  but  there  were 
many  who  had  caught  enough  of  the  inipiration  of  his 
genius  to  work  out  the  lessons  he  had  taught  them. 
Gradually  men  learned  to  draw  the  human  form  with  surer 
and  more  living  touch  than  of  old,  and  to  paint  faces  more 
open  to  the  play  of  expression  and  more  beautiful. 
Orcagna  came,  the  maker  of  the  tabernacle  in  Or  San 
Michele  and  the  painter  of  the  beautiful  angels  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella.  And  Fra  Angelico  came,  whose  wonder- 
ful angel-faces  and  exquisite  tc;:ches  of  fancy  were,  in  their 
own  way,  never  surpassed  by  any  who  followed.  There 
is  a  lovely  little  painting  of  his  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery  in 
Florence,  "The  Naming  of  St.  John,"  showing  the  blind 
old  father  of  John  the  Baptist  writing,  "His  name  shall 
be  called  John,"  while  the  silent  group  who  have  brought 
him  the  news  of  his  son's  birth,  stand  waiting.  It  was 
painted  probably  within  the  fourteenth  century,  much  less 
than  a  hundred  years  after  Giotto's  death.  Every  figure 
is  alive  and  graceful.  The  wooden  stiffness  that  Giotto 
had  first  driven  away  is  utterly  absent,  and  the  set,  drawn 


tl. 


M    >. 


o 


n 


>  t 


A  -■ 


Florence:   From  Dante  to  Boccaccio      107 

faces  of  the  old  time  have  given  place  to  sweet,  rounded 
ones.     Over  the  stone  wall  nod  roses  and  through  a  pas- 
sage way— with  a  perspective  that  has  quite  lost  the  appear- 
ance of  effort — you  catch  a  glimpse  of  grass  and  trees,  a 
bright  little  hint  of  a  garden  that  adds  a  most  unexpected 
touch  of  fancy.     It  is  true  thL.  the  ar:=«t-friar  has  not  a 
wide  range  of  vision.     He  strayed  little  into  the  broad 
world,  and  his  faces  have  more  of  a  spiritual,  heavenly 
beauty  than  those  that  one  would  easily  find  in  the  crowded 
city  streets;  but  it  was  enough  for  him  to  make  human 
forms  angelic  and  the  angels  themselves  human— to  catch 
Giotto's   lesson   of    reality,    and   make   his   fair  visions 
womanly  and  manly,  walking  on  a  real  and  very  fair  earth, 
albeit  they  are  of  a  more  spiritual  loveliness  than  one 
might  usually  find  among  mortals.     And  when  one  gazes 
on  his  angels  circling  about  the  throne  or  treading  the 
flowery  fields  of  paradise,  one  even  of  our  late  day  may 
feel  that  this  gentle  seer  of  five  hundred  years  ago  has 
given  us  a  heaven  more  full  of  grace  and  simple  delight- 
someness  than  any  other  we  have  imagined.     The  variety, 
the  glory,  the  myriad  moods  of  the  world,  had  yet  to  be 
discovered  and  portrayed,  but  Giotto,  Orcagna,  and  Fra 
Angelico  had  surely  found  the  secret  of  reality  and  beauty. 
Their  successors  had  but  to  develop  their  lessons. 

There  are  two  other  men  who  help  one  to  understand 
this  fourteenth  century,  and  to  get  a  clearer  idea  of  its 
meaning  and  permanent  results.  Of  one,  Petrarch,  you 
will  be  able  to  see  something  a  little  later  when  you  glance 
for  a  moment  at  the  revival  of  learning.*  But  his  friend 
Boccaccio  is  best  seen  here  in  the  company  of  artists  who 
brought  naturalness  and  life  to  painting,  and  a  little  study 

>  See  chapter  vii. 


io8 


Italian  Cities 


V 


of  him  will  help  us  to  make  clearer  to  ourselves  the  funda- 
mental mission  of  them  all.  It  seems  strange  at  first 
sight  to  class  Boccaccio  with  Fra  Angelico.  There 
is  little  in  common,  of  a  truth,  between  the  angels  of  the 
Uffizi  "Coronation"  and  the  tales  of  the  Decameron. 
And  yet  in  widely  different  ways  the  saintly  friar  and  the 
jovial  novelist  were  leading  Florentines  and  Italians  to  a 
common  goal.  As  we  may  see  clearly  enough  now,  the 
spiritual  world  of  Italy  and  Europe  was  passing  through 
a  difficult  and  painful  crisis.  The  names  Francis,  Dante, 
Niccola,  Giotto,  Petrarch,  Fra  Angelico  shi.  at  us  a  spiritual 
current  deep  and  strong,  but  not  at  once  visible, — 
ultimately  invincible,  but  subtle  and  slow-n.cving.  And 
the  waters  were  not  easily  stirred.  The  fresh  stream  of 
new  vitality  did  not  easily  penetrate  and  awaken.  For  so 
many  ages  the  earth  had  been  to  all  serious  and  devout 
minds  the  playground  of  the  devil,  aye,  and  his  working 
ground  too,  his  peculiar  domain,  where  any  attitude  of 
conciliation  or  contentment  with  worldly  things  on  the 
part  of  the  elect  seemed  a  bowing  to  Satan.  Beauty  and 
pleasure  were  words  and  thoughts  to  be  applied  to  heaven 
and  to  spiritual  things,  not  to  earth.  Tribulation,  not 
contentment,— unceasing  struggle,  not  repose, — the  crush- 
ing of  the  world  and  the  flesh,  not  their  exaltation, — these 
were  the  anifest  duty  of  the  faithful,  and  marvelously 
did  many  holy  saints  fulfil  it. 

Tennyson's  "St.  Simeon  Stylites"  embodies  much  of 
the  idea.  But  it  scarcely  does  the  saint  justice.  Not 
only  did  he  feel  it  to  be  his  duty  to  expose  himself  for  his 
sins  on  the  top  of  his  pillar  and  to  otherwise  diligently 
mortify  the  flesh,  but  he  further  showed  his  sanctity,  it  is 
said,  by  an  unusual  contempt  for  worldly  affections.     His 


!l 


Florence:   From  Dante  to  Boccaccio      109 

first  promptings  towards  a  life  of  holiness  moved  him  to 
fiet  f'om  home  and  break  the  heart  of  a  devoted  father. 
Twenty-seven  years  later  his  mother  found  out  where  he 
was  and  made  haste  to  visit  him.  But  he  closed  his  door 
on  her.  She  wept  and  implored  for  a  sight  of  his  face. 
"My  son,"  she  cried,  "why  hast  thou  done  this?  I  gave 
thee  life,  and  thou  hast  bo\  ed  me  down  with  griei.  I 
gave  thee  milk,  and  thou  hast  wrung  from  me  tears.  I 
gave  thee  kisses,  and  thou  hast  given  me  the  anguish  of  a 
broken  heart.  For  all  my  pain  and  toil  for  thy  sake  thou 
hast  repaid  me  in  bitter  wrongs."  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 
The  saint  sent  word  that  she  would  see  him  soon.  Three 
days  and  nights  she  remained  before  her  son's  closed 
door,  and  then,  aged  and  feeble  and  exhausted  with  grief, 
she  died.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  the  holy  man  come 
forth  and  offer  a  prayer  for  his  mothei  's  soul,  while  his 
followers  and  the  world  extolled  so  marvelous  a  victory 
over  worldly  desires  and  affections.*  No  earthly  love,  no 
demand  of  the  flesh,  no  yearning  of  the  intellect,  no 
worldly  ambition,  no  social  or  civic  or  filial  or  paternal 
duty  was  as  aught  beside  the  duty  to  save  one's  soul  alive 
and  to  propitiate  a  wrathful  God  by  prayer  and  penance. 
Even  the  monastic  duties  of  w  rk  and  teaching  were  not 
to  be  emphasized.  "The  duty  of  a  monk,"  said  St. 
Jerome,  "is  not  to  teach  but  to  weep." 

As  time  passed  and  as  the  rule  of  St.  Benedict  came 
in  the  sixth  century  to  reduce  the  monastic  ideal  to  some- 
thing like  order,  these  extremes  of  asceticism  doubtless 
became  less  common  and  less  monstrous.  But  the  ascetic 
conception  of  virtue  remained  characteristic  of  Latin 
Christianity  in  no  very  modified  form  through  century 

•  Lecky,  "European  Morals,"  Vcl.  II.,  p.  138. 


I  lO 


Italian  Cities 


after  century.  And  if  monks,  priests,  bishops  and  even 
Popes  often  fell  away  from  it  in  practice,  yet  it  remained 
none  the  less  an  ideal,  and  a  very  powerful  and  subtle  one. 
Now  it  was  just  this  that  needed  to  be  changed  in  some 
way  or  other  before  our  modern  life  could  come  to  its 
birth.  The  dark  shadow  needed  to  be  lifted.  The  eter- 
nal contemplation  of  sin  must  no  longer  be  the  normal 
attitude  of  the  man  who  was  to  be  esteemed  good. 
Human  bonds,  human  affections,  human  needs  must  no 
longer  be  esteemed  vain  and  evil.  "The  world  and  the 
flesh"  must  no  more  be  looked  upon  as  the  inevitable  asso- 
ciates of  "the  devil."  So  when  Fra  AngeHco  painted  sweet 
human  faces  for  his  women  and  his  angels  alike,  when  he 
gave  them  bright,  dainty  robes,  when  he  showed  pretty 
roses  topping  a  wall  and  bright  little  flowers  in  his  heavenly 
meadow,  when  he  e'.  made  a  joyful  little  friar  clasp  his 
pretty  lady-love  in  a  .cry  eager  and  very  human  embrace 
in  the  very  presence  of  the  angels,  he  was  definitely  help- 
ing to  put  aside  the  pall  of  human  depravity,  the  ever 
present  horror  of  the  devil,  the  refusal  to  see  brightness 
and  joy  even  in  frail  humanity  and  material  nature.  From 
such  a  point  of  view  it  will  not  seem  strange  after  all, 
P  rhaps,  to  associate  Boccaccio  with  Fra  Angelico  him- 
self as  with  Giotto  and  with  St.  Francis,  in  this  great 
work  of  parting  the  clouds,  of  bringing  back  sunshine  to 
the  weary,  restless  world,  of  consecrating  healthy  natural- 
ness, of  taking  away  the  oppressive  burden  of  sin,  Satan, 
and  the  fear  of  Hell. 

To  tell  just  how  Boccaccio  fulfilled  nis  part  in  all  this 
is  not  easy  without  telling  his  stories,  and  this  would  noc 
be  easy  to  do  even  were  there  space  without  offending  the 
proprieties.     But  even  if  one  cannot  help  sometimes  being 


['ii 


Florence:    From  Dante  to  Boccaccio      iii 


disgusted  wuh  the  Decameron,  yet  one  should  not  carry 
tod  much  of  our  twentieth-century  delicacy  into  these 
studies  of  fourteenth-century  Italy.  AivCr  all  Boccaccio 
is  not  much  worse  than  his  contemporary,  our  well-beloved 
Chaucer.  And  in  any  case  much  of  the  Decameron  may 
still  be  read  even  by  the  most  sensitive  without  offense. 
For  the  coarseness  and  broad  humor  of  some  of  the  stories, 
spontaneous  and  without  malice  as  it  is,  by  no  means 
taints  the  book  throuj^hout.  It  is  not  the  evil,  the  pene- 
tratingly evil  product  of  a  bad  man  and  a  blas^  society. 
It  is  simply  the  open-hearted,  unrestrained,  wide-eyed 
survey  of  life  on  its  lighter  side.  Indeed  if  his  spirit  still 
haunts  our  libraries  he  must  look  at  us  sometimes  in  a 
quizzical,  puzzled  way,  wondering  how  it  is  that  we  look 
so  sternly  upon  his  merry  tales.  For  life  was  gay  to  him, 
scholar  and  friend  of  Petrarch  though  he  was,  and  he 
would  doubtless  marvel  much  how  any  one  could  refuse  to 
cast  aside  petty  conventions  and  go  with  him  to  the  Flor- 
ence of  jest  and  song,  of  light  heart  and  quick  tongue  that 
he  knew  so  well. 

Not  all  jest  was  it  to  him  either,  for  he  and  Petrarch 
both  saw  their  city  in  the  grip  of  the  Black  Death,'  and 
terrible  indeed  is  the  picture  of  it  in  the  introduction  to 
the  Decameron.  Yet  that  awful  year  supplies  the  frame- 
work to  the  stories.  For  it  was  during  the  plague  that 
a  little  group  of  youths  and  maids  met  one  day  at  mass 
in  Santa  Maria  Novella.  And  here  where  the  Rucellai 
Madonna  gazed  sadly  down  upon  them  they  talked  things 
over,  and  decided  to  go  from  the  death-stricken  city  to 
the  country.  They  did  so  and  in  a  rural  retreat  "on  a 
little  hill,  somewhat  withdrawn  on  every  side  from  the 

'  In  the  year  134S.  Petrarch's  Laura  died  of  this  plaeue  in  Avignon. 


112 


Italian  Cities 


highway  and  full  of  various  shrubs  and  plants,  all  preen 
of  leafage  and  pleasant  to  behold"  they  comforted  their 
exile  by  telling  diverting  tales.     But  all  the  tales  would 
not  give  us  more  of  the  new  attitude  to  life  that  was  in 
Boccaccio's  heart  than  this  one  little  fragment,  selected 
almost  at  random.     It  is  uttered  -v  the  lady  who  sug- 
gested  the  flight  to  the  country.     "There."   she  said 
may  we  hear  the  small  birds  sing,  there  may  we  see  the 
hills  and  plains  clad  all  in  green  and  the  fields  full  of  corn 
wave  as  doth  the  sea;  there  may  we  see  trees,  a  thousand 
sorts,  and  there  is  the  face  of  heaven  more  open  to  view, 
the  which,  angered  against  us  though  it  be.  nevertheless 
denieth  not  unto  us  its  eternal  beauties." 


•t"*; 


V 
%.., 


i 


I 


'J 
1 


wm 


LORI'NZO   DE    MEDICI  AT  THE  AGE  OF   FIFTEEN 

UeUil  ir.jm  Bcnozzo  GozzoH's  Frt-s. v  ill  the  Ricrardi  Pa!a<c,  Florence 


I 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  FLORENCE  OF  THE  MEDICI 

On  the  old  Via  Larga,  now  the  Via  Cavour,  stands 
the  strong,  heavy  old  palace  of  the  Medici,  changed  some- 
what and  enlarged  by  later  members  of  the  family,  and  by 
the  family  that  gave  it  its  present  name,  Palazzo  Riccardi. 
If  you  enter  it  and  climb  the  stairs  you  may  find  one  room 
that  recalls  very  vividly  the  days  of  Cosimo  and  Lorenzo. 
It  is  their  old  family  chapel.  Once  when  Lorenzo  was 
still  a  boy  his  grandfather,  Cosimo,  ordered  the  painter 
Benozzo  Gozzoli,^  a  pupil  of  Fra  Angelico,  to  adorn  its 
walls  with  a  fresco  representing  the  adoration  of  the  Magi. 
It  was  done,  and  most  of  the  picture  still  remains.'  Each 
of  these  walls  contains  the  representation  of  one  of  the 
three  kings  with  his  retinue,  and  here  on  the  right  wall  as 
you  enter  your  eye  lights  on  the  gay  figure  of  one  of  the 
magi,  not  an  old  man,  as  you  have  always  thought  of 
these  wise  men  of  the  East,  but  a  boy.  Indeed,  this  is 
Lorenzo  himself  at  the  age,  perhaps,  of  fifteen,  painted 
by  one  who  knew  him  well.  He  who  later  became  so 
strangely  ill  favored  was  quite  handsome  then,  bright  of 
face  and  gayly  dressed,  looking  gallant  enough  on  his 
stately  white  horse.  And  foremost  in  the  retinue  that 
follows  the  boy  king  of  the  picture  is  a  gray-haired  old 
man  who  is  Cosimo  himself,  with  the  shrewd  kindly 
face  of  a  good  man  of  the  world  who  has  tasted  to  the 

■  Part  of  it,  the  Madonna  and  Child,  uas  been  taken  to  Berlin,  and  there  is  a 
window  there  instead.  The  chapel  was  lit  wholly  by  artificial  light  in  Cosimo's 
time. 

113 


114 


Italian  Cities 


HI 


Jiii 


full  the  joys   of   this   earth,  and   is   yet   at    peace   with 

himself. 

The   thirteenth   century,    that   in   which   Dante   and 
Giotto  were  born  and  lived  the  first  half  of  their  lives,  saw 
the  triumph  of  the  republican  Guelfs  over  the  aristocratic 
Ghibellines  inFlorence.     The  victory  seemed  to  mean  the 
victory  oflhe  popular  party.     But  after  all,  it  was  carried 
through  by  families  who  were  in  their  own  way  as  proud 
as  the  nobility,  and  a  republican  oligarchy  was  formed 
soon  that  reminds  us  cf  that  which  gradually  usurped  the 
government  of  Rome  in  the  third  century  before  Christ 
and  held  it  until  the  days  of  Caesar.     It  governed,  on  the 
whole,  well,  but  republican  as  Florence  was,  it  was  no 
more  governed  by  the  people  than  was  republican  Rome 
in  the  time  of  the  Gracchi.     Though  the  parallel  must  not 
be  pushed  too  far,  one  m?y  perhaps  think  of  the  control 
of  New  York  by  Tammaiy  Hall,  a  control  made  possible 
by  the  fact  that  the  leaders  of  Tammany  Hall  are  the 
working  leaders  of  the  party  which  includes  the  majority 
of  New  York  voters.     Those  who  see  in  our  midst  great 
cities   inhabited   by   people   who    loudly   proclaim    their 
unalterable  republicanism,   their  inalienable  liberty,   and 
which  are  yet  controlled — almost  owned — by  a  ring  of 
professional  poHticians,  should  not  find  it  hard  to  under- 
stand how  a  few  Senators  governed  Rome  or  how  the 
executive  of  the  Parte  Guelfa  governed  Florence. 

But  just  as  the  Rome  of  the  Gracchi,  of  Marius,  and 
of  Caesar  found  leaders  who  sought  to  break  the  power  of 
the  governing  class  by  leading  a  revival  of  the  people,  so 
did  Florence.  And  in  the  fourteenth  century  and  early 
fifteenth  the  restless  people,  fretting  against  the  power  of 
the  Guelf  "machine,"  came  to  look  with  peculiar  confi- 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


"5 


dence  and  loyalty  on  one  family.  The  Medici,  wealthy  as 
they  had  become,  were  of  the  people,  and  whether  they 
were  disinterested  or  not,  they  willingly  came  to  be  looked 
upon  as  faithful  champions  of  the  many  against  the  few. 
They  earned  the  bitter  hostility  of  the  old  republican  fami- 
lies and  the  enthusiastic  love  of  the  people.  Bit  by  bit 
they  grew  stronger.  Their  own  political  organization 
became  equal  to  that  of  their  opponents,  until  at  last 
Cosimo '  de'  Medici  was  the  real  ruler  of  Florence.  He 
only  occasionally  held  office,  it  is  true.  His  power  was 
rather  that  of  a  political  "boss,"  but  it  was  none  the  less 
complete,  backed  as  it  was  by  consummate  skill  in  the 
management  of  men,  by  enormous  wealth,  by  business 
connections  all  over  Europe  which  rivaled  the  diplo- 
matic machinery  of  a  state,  and  by  unlimited  popularity. 
It  is  this  man  whom  you  see  riding  contentedly  in  the  train 
of  his  favorite  grandson  in  Benozzo's  fresco. 

Cosimo 's  personal  merits  were  scarcely  dissociated 
in  the  minds  of  the  people  from  those  of  his  family.  The 
shrewd  old  man  quite  realized  that  if  all  remained  well  he 
could  pass  on  his  power  to  his  son  and  grandson.  But 
his  son  Piero,  though  his  mind  was  keen  enou<rh  and  his 
spirit  worthy  of  the  task,  had  not  the  physical  strength 
demanded  V"  the  double  responsibility  of  maintaining  a 
great  ^.  and  governing   Florence.     Cosimo  knew 

this,  a  .avored  the  more  carefully  to  train  Piero's 

son  Lo.  to  carry  on  the  family  tradition.     The  boy's 


ll 


'One  is  often  reminded  of  the  wise  comment  of  Aristotle  on  the  dantrer  o( 
an  extreme  democracy  becoming  a  tyranny;  "Generally,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered that  those  who  have  secured  power  to  the  state— whether  private  citizens, 
or  magistrates,  or  tribes— are  apt  to  cause  revolutions.  For  either  envy  of 
their  greatness  draws  others  into  rebellion,  or  they  themselves,  in  their  pride 
of  superiority,  are  unwilling  to  remain  on  a  level  with  others."  And  again: 
Most  ol  the  ancient  tyrants  were  originally  leaders  of  the  Deopie.'—PoUtus, 
Book  V. 


■  I 


.Try 


ii6 


Italian  Cities 


keen,  supple  mind  and  ambitious  spirit  responded  nobly. 
He  was  the  very  apple  of  the  old  man's  eye  in  his  declin- 
ing years. 

Cosimo  died  in  the  year  1464.  Piero  struggled  against 
disease  for  a  few  years,  delegating  many  duties  to  his 
brilliant  young  son,  and  holding  unbroken  the  power  of  his 
house,  and  then,  when  he  in  turn  passed  away,  in 
1469,  Lorenzo  was  definitely  asked  by  the  chief  men  in 
Florence  to  take  the  headship  of  the  city  which  had  been 
held  by  his  father  and  grandfather.  He  consented,  and 
his  "reign,"  as  we  are  tempted  to  call  it,  lasted  until  his 
death  in  1492.  In  those  years  he  made  his  little  state  the 
equal  of  powerful  monarchies  and  his  own  name  immortal. 
Not  through  conquests  or  diplomacy,  indeed,  though  his 
diplomacy  kept  the  peace  in  Italy  for  years  and  held  apart 
the  loes  whose  mad  quarrels  were  to  bring  ruin  and  deso- 
lation to  the  land  after  his  death,  but  through  a  matchless 
personality  and  through  the  zeal  with  which  he  identified 
himself  with  the  great  intellectual  and  artistic  movement 
of  his  time.' 

It  is  not  easy  lo  decide  on  the  phases  of  Florentine  life 
in  the  fifteenth  century  that  most  need  emphasis.  But 
without  being  at  all  certain  that  every  one  would  agree 
with  you,  you  decide  for  the  painters,  and  after  some 
meditation  you  cross  the  Ponte  Vecchio  and  thread  your 
devious  way  through  narrow  streetb  towards  the  church 
of   S.  Maria   della  Carmine.     Fascinating  shops  detain 

'Of  the  lives  of  Lorenzo  it  is  sufficient  here  to  name  Armstrong's  in  the 
Heroes  of  the  Nations  series.  Itmav  be  well  before  going  farther  to  mention 
with  earnest  commendation  Edmund  Gardner's  "  Florence,  a  most  admirable 
historical  and  descriptive  account  of  the  city.  Symonds'  "  Renaissance  in 
ltaly,"especially  the  volumes  on  "The  Revival  of  Learning  and  "Ihe  t-me 
Arts  "  is  indispensable  for  a  thorough  studv  of  the  Renaissance,  and  Burck- 
hardt's  "Renaissance"  is  just  as  good,  though  quite  ditterent  m  plan. 
Bcrtrnson's  "Florentine  Painters"  is  the  best  and  briefest  cntical  account  of 
the  painters. 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


117 


you  now  and  then — places  where  cheerful  workmen  are 
carving  Italian  walnut  into  cha'^s  and  tables,  or  on  a 
smaller  scale  into  bellows  and  picture  frames.  Such 
shops  are  numerous  on  this  south  side  of  the  Amo,  and 
you  have  wild  desires  to  buy  all  that  they  contain.  But 
you  only  gloat  affectionately  over  the  gracefully  ramping 
dragons,  the  dainty  Florentine  lilies,  the  fearsome  goblin 
heads,  and  pretty  conventional  tracery,  and  pass  sternly 
on  with  a  virtuous  consciousness  of  severe  self-denial. 
And  in  due  time  you  reach  your  church  and  make  your 
way  to  the  Brancacci  chapel,  in  the  right  transept.  Here, 
you  have  been  tolo.  you  will  find  paintings  that  are  worth 
while,  the  masterpieces  of  Masaccio. 

The  last  great  name  in  painting  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury was  that  of  Fra  Angelico.  The  fifteenth  claims 
him,  too,  for  he  did  not  die  until  1455,  but  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  he  is  not  so  distinctly  alone  and  supreme 
in  his  greatness.  For  in  1401  was  born  this  Masaccio, 
and  before  the  first  quarter  of  the  century  was  over  there 
had  been  things  painted  that  in  a  sense  began  another 
period  of  Florentine  and  Italian  art.  So  you  make  a  brief 
survey  of  the  frescoes  of  the  chapel,  and  finally  select  for 
examination  an  undoubted  work  by  Masaccio,  a  represen- 
tation of  the  incident  of  Christ  and  the  tribute  money. 
You  soon  find  the  essential  figures  and  catch  the  drift  of 
the  picture,  so  to  speak,  and  then  you  begin  to  see  why  it 
is  at  the  same  time  both  famous  and  little  known,  if  such 
a  paradox  may  be  permitted.  To  every  student  of  Italian 
art  the  name  of  Masaccio  is  not  simply  familiar,  but  one 
of  the  greatest — to  be  ranked  with  Giotto  and  Botticelli 
and  Michelangelo.  Yet  for  every  hundred  reasonably 
well-informed  people  who  know  the  ti;ime  of,  say,  Fra 


m 

!  '1 


ii8 


Italian  Cities 


Angelico,  there  is  perhaps  one  who  knows  anything  when- 
ever about  Masaccio.     And  the  reason  is  not  very  difficult 
to  find.     As  you  look  at  this  picture  of  the  "Tribute 
Money,"*  you  find  no  enthusiasm   stirring  with.n  you. 
The  evident  dynamic  element  in  Giotto,  the  eager  effort 
to  attain  more  than  brusH  of  Tiand  could  master,   the 
reaching  out  for  beauty  and  reality,  had  fascinated  you  in 
spite  of  the  crude  drawing  and  perspective.     The  lovely 
faces,  the    delicate    color,  the    ineffable  daintiness,   the 
innocent,  simple  devotion  and  other-worldliness  of  Fra 
Angelico  had  charmed  you  unceasingly  in  spite  of   his 
remoteness   from   material   reality.     But   here   is  better 
drawing,  better  perspective  than   either  Giotto  or   Fra 
Angelico  could  master,  more  grace  than  Giotto  had,  more 
force  and  sense  of  actuality  than  Fra  Angelico,  and  yet 
less  of  the  eager  life  which  so  attracted  you  in  the  one, 
and  of  the  exquisite,  flower-like  loveliness  which  delights 
all  who  look  at  the  pictures  of  the  other.     Still,  the  longer 
you  look  at  these  strong  figures  in  Masaccio 's  painting 
the  more  do  you  feel  that  after  all  no  painter  up  to  his 
time  would  have  been  capable  of  creating  them.     They 
have  nearly  the  life,  the  vigor  of  Giotto,  and  they  have  a 
grace,  an  ease,  a  sense  of  being  perfectly  ordinary  every- 
day men  that  Giotto's  had  not  and  could  not  have.     And 
in  color,  if  there  is  not  the  delicacy,  the  brightness  of  Fra 
Angelico  there  is  an  element  just  as  much  to  be  valued— 
the  sense  of  shadow,  of  a  certain  hazy  somberness  that  is 
restful  and  th.  t  grows  on  you  with  longer  study.     There 
is  a  flavor  of  autumn  about  the  scene.     Leafless  trees 
stand  in  a  shadowy  background  with  something  of  the 

JManvofthe  pictures  once  attributed  to  Masaccio  have  been  ruthlessly 
taken  from  him  by  the  critics.  Very  tew  are  leit,  indeed,  but  this  is  one 
of  them. 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


119 


mystery,  the  quiet,  the  invitation  of  a  November  forest, 
when  the  leaves  and  most  of  the  birds  are  gone.  No 
bright  colors  dazzle  or  charm  you,  and  if  your  eye  is  not 
caught  so  quickly  as  by  some  other  paintings  it  is  perhaps 
the  more  content  to  linger. 

Now  cross  the  Arno  again  and  walk  past  the  Duomo 
and  Campanile,  past  the  Riccardi  Palace,  to  the  unpre- 
tending building  known  as  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts 
(Accademia  di  Belle  Arii).  You  pass  by  the  gigantic 
"David"  of  Michelangelo,  turn  to  your  left  into  the  room 
called  "The  Room  of  Perugino,"  and  take  your  stand 
before  the  great  "Coronation"  of  Fra  Filippo  Lippi.  It 
was  not  fair  perhaps  to  come  straight  from  Masaccio  to 
Fra  Filippo.  You  should  at  least  have  paused  before 
Ghiberti's  marvelous  bronze  gates  to  note  how  sculpture 
still  led  her  sister  art,  how  such  a  relief  as  that  repre- 
senting the  meeting  of  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
had  a  sense  of  form,  and  even  of  perspective,  a  feeling  for 
composition  and  for  wonderful  picturesqueness  that  paint- 
ing had  still  to  learn.  But  just  at  present  you  are  putting 
sculpture  to  one  side  and  trying  to  see  the  development  of 
painting.  You  have  caught  in  Masaccio  a  glimmering 
of  a  new  realism,  a  carrying  on  of  Giotto's  great  message 
beyond  even  Giotto's  dream,  and  you  are  eager  to  see  how 
the  next  great  painter  attacks  the  problem.  Here,  then, 
is  ?  good,  typical  piece  of  Fra  Filippo's  work.  Here  is 
the  Virgin,  and  here  are  angels  and  saints,  the  whole 
celestial  company,  gathered  to  witness  the  glf^ry  of  the 
Madonna.  Are  they  angels,  or  are  they  human?  You 
breathe  a  sigh  of  relief  and  pleasure.  Each  face  gives 
you  a  personal  sense  of  satisfaction.  You  could  welcome 
them  all  as  personal  friends,  so  pleasant  and  good-natured 


I20 


Italian  Cities 


are  they.  Heaven  must  assuredly  be  a  delightsome  and 
satisfying  place,  less  devoutly  spiritual  doubtless  than  the 
Paradise  of  Fra  Angelico,  but  easier  for  a  mortal  to  con- 
template, less  remote,  more  possible,  perhaps  more 
friendly,  more  unaffectedly  inviting.  Not  an  angel  of 
them  all  but  looks  capable  of  brightening  up  at  a  chance 
suggestion  of  Chianti,  and  the  Virgin  herself  can  never 
have  known  a  serious  care.  A  bright,  happy  assembly 
of  joyous  beings  who  would  willingly,  you  are  sure,  do 
anything  they  could  to  make  the  world  happier.  Indeed, 
you  insensibly  grow  happier  yourself  as  you  look,  and  you 
wish  you  could  say  so  to  the  good  friar  himself.  You  can 
on!y  cast  benevolent  glances  at  the  kindly  face  of  "Brother 
Lippo"  as  he  kneels  there  on  your  right  with  the  inscrip- 
tion before  him,  "Is  perjecit  opus"  (This  is  he  who  did  it). 
For  if  you  would  not  willingly  abate  one  jot  of  Fra 
Angelico's  spirituality,  yet  you  would  be  equally  reluctant 
to  take  anything  from  Fra  Filippo's  new  note  of  kindly 
human  feeling.  Nothing  coarse  or  material  is  here,  noth- 
ing really  fleshly  or  sensual.  Only  the  note  of  asceticism 
is  gone.  Fra  Filippo's  angels  and  saints  are  living, 
breathing,  life-enjoying  human  creatures,  good  and  pure, 
surely,  with  not  a  taint  of  the  sensual  or  grossly  material 
about  them,  yet  no  longer  intent  solely  on  the  contempla- 
tion of  holiness.  Browning  has  put  the  plan  of  it  into  the 
friar's  mouth: 

"I  shall  paint 
God  ill  the  midst.  Madonna  and  her  babe, 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood. 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer; 
And  there  i'  the  'ront,  of  course,  a  saint  or  two." 


'  I 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


121 


And  so  on,  until  the  painter  himself  appears  in  the  heavenly 
company  by  mistake : 

"I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's  things  by  mistake. 
My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 
I,  in  this  presence,  this  pu*-;  company! 
Where's  a  hole,  where's  a  corner  for  escape? 
Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  thing 
Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm — 'not  so  fasti' 
Addresses 'the  celestial  presence,  'nay — 
He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all. 
Though  he's  none  of  you!    Could  St.  John  there  draw — 
His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting  brush? 
We  come  to  Brother  Lippo  for  all  that. 
Iste  perjecit  opus!  " 

And  even  more  worth  while  is  it  to  see  and  digest 
Browning's  summing  up,  in  Fra  Lippo's  eager  words  to 
the  watchman  who  has  apprehended  him,'  of  the  attitude  i 

to  life  implied  in  all  of  these  fifteenth-century  paintings.  ' 

1  • 

"  You've  seen  the  world, 
The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power. 
The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights,  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises — and  God  made  it  all! 
For  what?    Do  you  feel  thankful,  aye  or  no. 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above. 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child. 
These  are  the  frame  to?    What's  it  all  about? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised?    Or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at?    O  this  last,  of  course! — you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,— paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it? 

'  Every  one  should  be  familiar  with  this  poem,  "  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,"  and 
with  "Androa  del  Sarto."  Browning  has,  pt-rhaps.  overemphasized  the 
fleshly  element  in  Fra  Isp.pn's  rharqctor  and  wnrk  and  it  i'-  nnss-hle  that  all 
might  not  agree  with  bis  estimate  of  Andrea,  but  in  the  main  the  idea  in  each 
poem  is  deeply  true. 


IP 


122 


Italian  Cities 


God's  works — paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 

To  let  a  truth  slip.    Don't  object,  '  His  works 

Are  here  already;  nature  is  complete: 

Suppose  you  reproduce  her — (which  you  can't) 

There's  no  advantage!    You  must  beat  her,  then,' 

For,  don't  you  mark?    We're  made  so  that  we  love 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted— better  to  us, 

Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so. 

Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now. 

Your  cullion's  hanging  face?    A  bit  of  chalk. 

And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though!     How  much  more 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth ! 

That  were  to  take  the  prior's  pulpit  place. 

Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  I    Oh,  oh. 

It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 

And  we  in  our  graves!     This  world's  no  blot  for  us 

Nor  blank;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good." 

To  speak  briefly,  then,  Fra  Filippo's  message  is  con- 
tained in  these  last  two  lines.  His  paintings  preach  the 
goodness,  the  joy,  and  the  beauty  of  this  world.  His 
realism  is  not  the  realism  which  finds  it  necessary  to  por- 
tray ugliness,  and  which  regards  foulness  as  an  evidence 
of  truth.  He  simply  saw  in  the  faces  and  characters 
about  him  so  much  that  attracted  him,  so  much  clearer  an 
interpretation  of  the  Divine  than  anything  else  he  could 
imagine,  that  to  him  realism  and  idealism  became  identical.^. 

One  could  spend  a  long  time  with  Fra  Filippo  and  the 
son  who  carried  on  his  traditions,  Filippino  Lippi,  painter  i 
of  the  "Vision  of  St.  Bernard"  and  the  lovely  "Madonna 
of  the  Rose  Garden"  in  the  Uffizi,  but  for  the  present  you 
must  turn  to  a  pupil  of  Brother  Lippo's  who  became  even 
greater  than  his  master,  Sandro  Botticelli.     In  another 


e 
s 
n 
d 

!-^ 
e 

r  y' 

a 

u 
n 

r 


"MADONNA  OF  THF  ROSE  GARDEN 
Filippino  Lippi  (  Palace.  Florence 


The  Florence    .fthe  Medici 


123 


m 


room  of  tlie  academ  s  a  famous  painting  which  will  do 
\erv  well  as  a  tyi-e  of  Botti  elli's  power  and  of  his 
advance  over  his  picdccessorb  h,  bre.^  1th  of  a  tistu-  vision. 
It  is  the  "Primavera"  (the  A'ieirory  uf  bpnng).  It  is  not 
easy  to  work  out  every  detail  ui  the  allegi  ry,  and  for  <  ur 
purposes  it  is  perhaps  not  necessar}'  ^ '<\i  are  look  ng 
into  a  cool,  green  grove,  where  in  a  Httlv  open  space  a 
group  of  nvmphs  and  u  )ddes>  re  stanaing  or  n;  ing 
on  a  carpet  of  gr.^  ^s  aui!  prea>  pring  ^nv  rs.  Above 
their  heads  lies  a  chubby  little  Cuuid.  v  ain.> 
straight  at  tiie  heart  of  (  le  of  tl  makr  *-ao  r 
you  suppose,  the  Graces      She  is  ior  k* 


youth  to  the  k*'t,  (imi  ano 
who  stands  her    for  H -rm 
Flora,  covered      th  pref 
red  flower-,  ani    besid     h       / 
a  nyn.ph  f  •■nm  whose  moutl  flo 
herself  stands  in  the   nidst  rath 
il    the  exuberaiK       .1    spring 
meant  little  to  he      Timort  ' 
Venus  and  th  t  of  uiui    " 
in  '  ie  picture.     The  res 
gr     n,  dotied  with  the  1 
the  p;   n;  e   is  Se       and  cot 
and  -    jugh  there  i     i  subt' 


e'  Mec' 


.     H 
aves 


>om 
with 


arrow 
esent, 

at 
jthei 
iiyiu  comes 
irple  and  dull 


yr  speeds  in  pursuit  of 
Tre  dropping.     Venus 
suvily  surveying  it  all,  as 
'.e   palled  somewhat  and 
th.     The  loose  robe  of 
practically  the  only  reds 
ite  01      'How  or  cool,  dark 
)wers.     The  whole  tone  of 
,  rather  ^nan  gay  and  bright, 
sense  of  grace  and  movement 
a),  ug        -a      ovement  which  gives  you  a  strange 

cons^  ou-snes  of  breezes  and  rustling  and  wavy  swrving— 
vet  1  is  s  hdued  and  uiet  hroughout.  It  seem^  just  a 
little  birai  ^-e,  this  o.  ■^  c<'  -lelancholy,  in  a  painting  of 
spring,  a  id  you  find  .le  pensiveness  in  the  "Birth 

of  Venus"  in  the  Uffiz.,  where  Botticelli  shows  the  new- 
born      ddess  standing  in  her  open  sea-shell,  and  being 


124 


Italian  Cities 


:hl^ 


wafted  to  shore  over  tiny  waves.  Both  paintings  are  a 
response  to  the  passion  of  interest  in  Greece  and  Rome 
that  was  characteristic  of  fifteenth-century  Florence.  Both 
show  a  drifting  away  from  the  purely  religious  atmosphere, 
from  the  close  association  with  the  Church,  which  had  been 
the  dominant  fact  in  the  development  of  painting  till  the 
time  of  Fra  Filippo  Lippi.  Even  Fra  Filippo  had  used 
only  sacred  subjects,  though  he  treated  them  in  a  secular, 
human  way.  \  But  Botticelli  definitely  takes  pagan  subjects 
and  tries  to  deal  with  them  in  the  ancient  way.    V 

How  far  he  succeeded  is  perhaps  a  question.  To 
place  one  of  the  Casa  Vettii  frescoes  in  Pompeii  beside 
this  "Birth  of  Venus"  would  be,  you  imagine,  to  com- 
pare things  utterly  unlike,  the  first  century  with  the  fif- 
teenth. It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  Venus  of  Melos  to  the 
Venus  of  the  "Primavera,"  from  the  Hermes  of  Prax- 
iteles to  the  Hermes  of  Botticelli.  The  humanism  of 
Lorenzo  and  his  circle  might  do  away  with  medieval  ascet- 
icism and  medieval  narrowness  in  theology,  but  a  certain 
nameless  wistfulness,  a  feeling  for  the  infinite  possibilities 
of  the  soul,  a  yearning  for  the  unattainable,  an  unescap- 
able  sense  of 

"The  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world," 

would  inevitably  remain  as  the  heritage  of  centuries  of 
Christian  teaching  to  make  impossible  the  exultant  sense 
of  perfection,  the  calm,  self-satisfied  serenity  of  the 
ancient  Greeks.  Botticelli  is  still,  then,  a  Christian 
painter, — less  naive,  less  simple  in  his  faith  than  Filippino 
Lippi  or  the  fourteenth-century  painters, — more  inclined  to 
ponder  over  things  and  be  puzzled  by  life's  contradictions, 
but  still  Christian  far  more  than  pagan.     The  revival  of 


I*  1  = 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


125 


paganism  by  the  humanist  scholars  had  as  yet  only  dis- 
turbed and  distressed  the  faithful,  or  had  at  most  only 
modified  their  ideas  of  life  and  widened  their  horizon  of 
thought,  without  at  all  uprooting  and  sweeping  away  the 
old  standards  of  faith  or  the  essential  hold  of  Christianity 
on  earnest  minds. 

Masaccio,  Filippo  Lippi,  Botticelli — these  three  are 
perhaps  the  typical  fifteenth-century  masters  of  Florentine 
art.  There  are  others,  indeed,  men  like  Benozzo  Gozzoli 
and  Filippino  Lippi  and  Ghirlandajo  and  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
who  painted  glorious  pictures  and  greatly  exalted  the  fame 
of  their  city  and  their  age.  But  in  greater  or  less  measure 
they  shared  the  characteristics  of  the  masters  you  have 
been  studying.  All  of  them  show  the  increasing  sense  for 
human  feeling  and  for  the  joys  of  this  present  life.  Yet 
all  have  the  lingering  feeling  that  bea'  ty  of  the  flesh  and 
worldly  joy  are  less  to  be  valued  than  holiness  and  beauty 
of  spirit.  The  most  devout  is  doubtless  Filippino;  the 
least  so  is  perhaps  Ghirlandajo.  Still  Ghirlandajo's  pic- 
tures vary  greatly  in  this  regard,  and  one  might  in  some 
respects  name  Andrea  rather  as  the  least  religious  of  the 
Florentines.  Attractive  as  his  paintings  must  always  be 
to  lovers  of  beauty,  exquisite  as  are  both  faces  and  figures 
in,  for  instance,  the  "Madonna  of  the  Harpies,"  yet  his 
delight  was  largely,  one  might  say,  in  the  externals  of 
painting.  He  was  a  master  colorist,  and  had  almost  a 
Venetian  love  for  rich  harmonies  and  gorgeous  detail. 
But  even  Andrea  and  Ghirlandajo  are  seldom  without  the 
spirit  of  reverence  that  one  grows  to  associate  in  a  pecu- 
liar degree  with  the  name  of  Florence.  >  The  Florentines 
have  been  called  the  Puritans  of  Italy,  and  the  parallel  is 
not  without  suggestiveness.     They  passed  on  their  tradi- 


'1  ^ 


hi 


^|l 


?    ; 


In 


126 


Italian  Cities 


tion  even  beyond  the  fifteenth  century.  Verocchio,  the 
painter  of  the  lovely  twilight  "Annunciation"  of  the  Uffizi, 
was  the  teacher  of  Leonardo.  Michelangelo  was  a  student 
under  Lorenzo's  protection.  So  that  m  a  sense  the  "Last 
Supper"  and  the  terrible  "Last  Judgment"  are  the  final 
expression  in  painting  of  the  stem  persistence  of  Florence 
in  her  old  faith  until  her  liberty  and  clearness  of  vision 
together  departed  from  her. 

Still,  even  while  remembering,  nay  emphasizing  this 
Florentine  Puritanism,  this  characteristic  vein  of  serious- 
ness and  devotion  that  so  marks  off  the  Florentine  from 
the  Venetian  painters,  one  should  not  forget  the  contri- 
bution of  the  humanists  and  of  Fra  Filippo.  Few  of  the  best 
souls  in  Florence,  it  is  true,  ever  lost  hold  entirely  of  the 
old  faith.  They  retained  throughout  the  grave  spirituality 
which  in  different  degrees  and  in  different  ways  marks 
Dante,  Giotto,  Masaccio,  and  Michelangelo.  But  the  fif- 
teenth century  saw,  nevertheless,  the  steady  advance  of  a 
conscious  joy  in  the  life  of  this  world.  The  peculiar  mixture 
of  Christian  with  pagan  ideas  and  ideals  which  character- 
ized the  Renaissance  at  its  height  is  amusing  and  almost 
unintelligible  to  a  modem.  But  even  Dante  had  Charon 
and  Cerberus  in  his  Christian  Hell,  and  the  easy  assimila- 
tion of  heathen  with  Christian  mythology  that  one  sees  in 
our  own  poetry  as  late  as  Milton  is  a  sufficient  hint  of  the 
way  in  which  noble  minds  could  retain,  theoretically,  their 
allegiance  to  medieval  faith  and  ideals,  and  yet  adopt  with 
enthusiasm  and  without  shock  the  study  of  antiquity,  the 
new  delight  in  pure  culture,  and  the  new  joy  in  earthly 
existence.  Medicean  Florence  did  not,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  analyze  or  understand  itself.  The  emaciated,  spirit- 
ual faces  of  Filippino  Lippi  are  just  as  characteristic  in 


t  ■  a 


W-'  •* 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


127 


their  own  way  of  his  city  and  time  as  the  pleasant  visages 
of  Fra  Lippo's  saints  and  angels.  Pico  della  Mirandola, 
beloved  by  saints  and  men  of  the  world,  Platonist  and 
Christian,  prince  among  scholars  and  purest  of  souls, 
friend  of  Lorenzo  and  of  Savonarola,  was  perhaps  the  one 
supreme  instance  of  the  combination  of  the  new  human- 
ism with  the  old  faith,  each  in  its  noblest  form.  But  the 
two  streams  did  not  always  coalesce.  And  in  painting, 
the  "Primavera"  of  Botticelli  is  the  most  ideal  expression 
of  Florentine  spirituality  and  religious  feeling,  gazing 
reflectively  and  yet  withal  eagerly  at  the  new  brightness 
of  the  once  despised  world.  Few  could  have  Pico's  con- 
fident grasp  of  the  ultimate  oneness  of  all  truth,  his  fear- 
less reaching  out  to  Plato  with  one  hand  and  to  Christ 
with  the  other.  To  the  average  thoughtful  Florentine 
the  matter  was  rather  as  Botticelli  had  it — the  world 
undoubtedly  good,  beauty  and  nature  and  romance  un- 
doubtedly worth  while,  but  back  of  all  a  seriousness,  an 
uneasy  questioning  that  was  never  long  absent  or  very  far 
from  the  surface. 

So  as  Fra  Angelico's  "Paradise"  was  an  interpreta- 
tion in  its  way  of  the  ideals  of  the  later  fourteenth  century, 
so  the  "Primavera"  is  to  be  turned  to  again  and  again  as 
a  true  voice  from  the  Florence  of  Lorenzo.  It  is  not 
simply  an  allegory,  else,  perhaps,  it  might  not  deserve  to 
be  called  a  great  picture.  It  is  a  portrayal  of  living  and 
most  fascinating  figures  on  a  background  cf  which  you 
will  never  tire.  It  is  no  desecration  to  let  Keats  interpret 
these  goddesses,  this  music  of  graceful  line  and  soft  color, 
this  nymph  fl^  ■  :,  from  embrace,  as  if  his  glance  had 
fallen  on  this  t.  "'nr  than  on  that  other  shape  of  far  differ- 
ent beauty. 


I 


128 


Italian  Cities 


h 


"What  r.icn  or  gods  are  these?    What  maidens  loath 
What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 
Wh.?t  pipes  and  timbrels?    What  wild  ecstasy? 

"Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 

Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  jjrieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss. 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair!" 

One  might  well  wish  for  a  really  intimate  glimpse  of 
the  age  that  knew  Botticelli  and  Ghirlandajo,  Verocchio 
and  Poliziano,  Pico  della  Mirandola  and  Lo'-enzo  himself 
in  their  prime.  And  another  there  was,  the  supreme  type 
of  Florentine  Puritanism,  the  great  Dominican  who  vainly 
tried  to  stem  the  corruption  and  paganism  that  was 
destroying  the  o'd  ideals  of  life  and  faith,  the  mighty 
Savonarola.  It  is  half  pathetic  to  see  the  broad-minded, 
cultured  Lorenzo  reaching  out  to  Savonarola  the  hand 
that  the  reformer  sternly  refused  to  take.  Lorenzo, 
steeped  in  Plato,  learned  in  the  languages,  the  literature, 
and  the  thought  of  Greece  and  Rome,  keenest  of  art 
critics,  past  master  in  diplomacy  and  statesmanship,  who 
could  turn  from  philosophy  or  politics  to  write  jewel 
lyrics,  songs  that  flashed  through  all  Tuscany  and  were 
sung  in  the  streets  of  the  city — this  supreme  man  of  the 
world  could  rightly  enough  value  Savonarola.  He  was  a 
judge  of  men,  and  he  knew  that  the  friar  was  a  leader  of 
men.  But  the  great  reformer,  narrow  as  he  was  zealous, 
looked  bitterly  upon  Lorenzo  as  a  very  incarnation  of  the 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


129 


worldly  spirit  against  which  he  had  declared  war.  The 
love  of  earthly  beauty,  the  delight  in  philosophy  and 
poetry,  all  the  great  enthusiasms  and  achievements  which 
were  to  make  the  age  of  Lorenzo  an  age  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, were  as  nothing  to  this  prophet  who  cried  his 
somber  warning  of  wrath  to  come  in  spite  of  poet  or 
painter,  philosopher  or  ruler.  After  Lorenzo  died  the 
words  of  Savonarola  began  to  tell,  and  for  a  time  he 
was  supreme,  as  the  representative  and  voice  of  Jesus 
Christ,  sole  ruler  of  Florence.  But  he  could  not  hold 
back  the  tide  alone.  He  had  declared  war  on  the  Renais- 
sance in  all  its  glory, — the  Renaissance  of  Greek  license 
and  paganism  as  of  Greek  ideals  of  beauty  and  of  thought, 
the  idealization  of  the  foul  and  the  earthly  as  well  as  of  the 
divine  in  humanity  and  in  God's  world — and  with  its  sad 
evils  and  its  mighty  good  the  genius  of  the  time  was  too 
strong  for  him.  His  brief  power  vanished.  The  wrath 
of  the  wicked  whom  he  had  tried  to  crush  conquered  and 
slew  him.  He  had  refused  to  identify  himself  with  what 
was  good  in  the  Renaissance,  and  trying  to  stand  alone, 
he  perished.  There  is  little  basis  for  a  parallel  between 
Savonarola  and  Socrates.  And  yet  this  much  is  true, 
that  each  stood  valiantly  for  righteousness,  each  won  for 
a  time  respect,  and  even  reverence,  each  refused  to  com- 
promise with  evil,  and  each  was  put  to  death  by  his  city. 
And  this  also,  the  warning  of  each,  unheeded,  was  remem- 
bered when  destruction  fell,  and  when  bitter  repentance 
came  too  late  to  Florence  as  to  Athens. 

But  what  of  the  side  of  Lorenzo's  Florence  that 
Poliziano  and  Pico  della  Mirandola  stood  for?  There  has 
surely  been  a  notable  lack  in  your  thinking  about  the 
Renaissance  so  far  when  you  have  neglected  the  revival 


IJO 


Italian  Cities 


of  learning.  It  seems  to  you  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it,  that  long  ago  in  your  school-days  you  were  taught  that 
"Renaissance"  and  "Revival  of  Learning"  were  almost 
interchangeable  terms,  and  yet  here  you  have  been  dis- 
cussing the  Renaissance  in  many  pages  with  barely  a  men- 
tion of  this  wave  of  new  enthusiasm  for  things  Greek  and 
Roman.  Well,  in  so  far  as  this  implies  neglect,  you  have 
erred  indeed.  The  revival  of  antique  culture  meant  as 
much  to  the  world,  doubtless,  as  did  the  arr  of  Giotto  and 
Botticelli  and  Leonardo,  and  if  you  had  been  planning  a 
systematic  treatise  you  would  have  said  so  before  this. 

To  see  the  real  beginning  of  this  conscious  revival  of 
the  spirit,  the  thought,  the  literature  of  antiquity,  you 
must  go  back  to  Petrarch,'  the  first  lyric  poet  of  Italy,  and 
the  father  of  humanism.  We  do  not  easily  understand 
now  this  latter  phrase,  father  of  humanism,  but  it  means 
a  great  deal.  It  means  just  that  Petrarch  was  the  leader 
in  the  bringing  back  of  classical  culture  to  the  knowledge 
and  interest  of  men.  It  must  be  remembered  that  culture, 
the  breadth  of  mind  and  the  exactness,  the  elasticity,  the 
comprehensiveness  of  thought  that  only  comes  from  much 
reading  of  good  literature  and  the  patient  digestion  thereof, 
could  only  then  be  had  through  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 
We  of  these  later  days  do  not  absolutely  need  any  lan- 
guage but  our  own.  We  may  read  for  a  lifetime  and 
read  great  things  and  still  not  exhaust  what  is  worth  while 
in  our  own  language.  But  it  was  not  so  in  Italy  in  the 
thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.     Until  Dante  wrote 

'See  Robinsons  ••  Petrarch,"  easily  the  best  book  in  English  on  the  poet- 
scholar  Petrarch  s  lather  was  a  Jriend  of  Dante,  and  they  were  banished 
Irotn  Horcnce  in  the  same  year,  1.^02.  Francis  Petrarca-or  Petracco  if  you 
wish  to  use  his  father  s  exact  name-was  born  two  years  later,  in  exile  at 
Arezzo.  He  always  counted  himself  a  Florentine,  though  he  lived  litt'e'  in 
Florence.  ° 


z'lWfimmts'Jtta' .  imk 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


»3> 


there  was  no  vernacular  literature  whatever.  Until 
Boccaccio  wrote  there  was  no  such  thing  as  good  Italian 
prose.  There  was  nothing  that  could  possibly  take  the 
place  of  Homer  and  the  Attic  dramatists,  of  Cicero,  Virgil, 
and  Horace.  Yet  these  had  drifted  out  of  the  ken  of 
Europe  many  generations  before.  Greek  had  vanished 
utterly,  and  if  Latin  remained,  the  appreciation  of  the 
spirit  of  Cicero  and  Virgil  was  quite  gone.  The  few  who 
read  the  Roman  poets  were  constantly  suspecting  alle- 
gories and  symbolism,  or  gravely  accepting  the  narrative 
of  the  adventures  of  ^neas  as  a  chronicle  of  historic 
facts.  The  old  free,  broad  gaze  at  the  world,  the  pleas- 
ure in  bright  fancy  and  in  the  music  of  rich  verse,  the 
desire  to  enjoy  this  life  for  its  own  sake,  the  immense 
interest  in  human  nature,  in  its  complexity,  its  power,  its 
unfathomed  possibilities,— all  of  these  which  were  second 
nature  to  the  cultured  Roman  of  the  first  or  second  cen- 
tury of  our  era,  were  foreign  and  unknown  to  the  Christian 
thinker  of  the  thirteenth.  The  medieval  mind  busied  itself 
rather  with  logic  and  rhetoric,  and  wove  for  itself  great 
networks  of  metaphysics  and  theology.  So  that  it  is 
because  Petrarch  definitely  and  powerfully  stood  out 
against  all  this  that  he  is  called  the  father  of  humanism. 
He  did  not  condemn  the  favorite  medieval  mental  exercise 
oflogic.  "Far  from  it  ....  I  know  that  it  is  one  of 
the  liberal  studies,  a  ladder  for  those  who  are  striving 
upwards,  and  by  no  means  a  useless  protection  to  those 
who  are  forcing  their  way  through  the  thorny  thickets  of 

philosophy But  because  a  road  is  proper  for  us 

to  traverse,  it  does  not  immediately  follow  that  we  should 
linger  on  it  forever.  No  traveler,  unless  he  be  mad,  will 
forget  his  destination  on  account  of  the  pleasures  of  the 


132 


Italian  Cities 


ill 


way;    his  characteristic  virtue  lies,  on  the  contrary,  in 

reaching  his  goal  as  soon  as  possible Dialectics 

may  form  a  portion  of  our  road,  but  certainly  not  its  end; 
it  belongs  to  the  morning  of  life,  not  to  its  evening." 
You  may  equally  see  Petrarch's  capacity  for  putting  aside 
cobwebs  and  getting  at  the  heart  of  things  in  such  a  com- 
ment as  this  on  the  philosopher  who  dominated — almost 
enslaved — the  minds  of  later  medieval  thinkers:  "I  believe 
that  Aristotle  was  a  great  man  and  that  he  knew  much; 
yet  he  was  but  a  man,  and  therefore  something,  nay  many 

things,  may  have  escaped  him And  although  he 

has  said  much  of  happiness  both  at  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  his  'Ethics, '  I  dare  assert  that  he  was  so  completely 
ignorant  of  true  happiness  that  the  opinions  upon  this 
matter  of  any  pious  old  woman,  or  devout  fisherman, 
shepherd,  or  fanner,  would,  if  not  so  fine  spun,  be  more 
to  the  point  than  his."  Join,  then,  this  new  critical  power, 
this  clear-eyed  grip  on  essentials,  to  an  unaffected  pleas- 
ure in  literary  beauty,  a  joy  in  poetry  for  its  own  sake, 
and  one  may  a  little  understand  how  great  a  gift  of  fresh- 
ness, ol  naturalness,  of  directness  Petrarch  gave  to  his 
time.  And  he  accompanied  this  revival  of  the  old  Greek 
and  Roman  point  of  view  regarding  culture  by  earnest, 
lifelong  efforts  to  rescue  from  hidden  comers  the  ne- 
glected, dust-covered  manuscripts  of  the  old  civilizations. 
So  he  not  only  brought  to  view  the  old  mastr  pieces  again, 
but  he  taught  people  how  to  read  them. 

This  work  of  Petrarch's  was  nobly  followed  up  by  his 
friends  and  disciples.  He  himself  had  never  been  able  to 
find  a  teacher  of  Greek  He  only  knew  Homer  in  a  bad 
Latin  translation.  But  soon  the  tongue  of  Sophocles  and 
Plato  began  to  be  studied  and  rapidly  mastered,  as  scholars 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


^33 


from  Constantinople  found  it  worth  their  while  to  come  to 
Venice  and  Florence.  The  coming  of  Manuel  Chrys- 
oloras,  a  Byzantine  Greek  and  one  of  the  foremost 
Hellenists  of  his  age,  to  fill  the  chair  of  Greek  in  the 
University  of  Florence  in  1396  was  the  beginning  of  a 
new  era,  and  the  patronage  of  men  like  Palla  degli 
Strozzi,  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  and  Pope  Nicholas  V.,  secured 
the  future  of  Greek  scholarship.  Libraries  were  founded 
and  steadily  added  to.  Eager  students  came  from  all  parts 
of  Europe  to  study  under  Chrysoloras  and  his  successors. 
And  by  the  time  of  Lorenzo's  young  manhood  the  Greek 
literature,  the  Greek  attitude  to  life,  were  as  familiar  to 
Italian  scholars  as  they  are  to  the  scholars  of  to-day. 
Plato  and  Homer  were  living  realities  to  them.  To 
Poliziano  and  to  Pico,  the  two  greatest  scholars  of  their 
time,  Greek  was  as  familiar  as  Latin  had  been  to  Petrarch, 
and  it  seems  natural,  too,  that  with  the  little  group  of 
brilliant  companions  that  constituted  the  nucleus  of 
Lorenzo's  court,  Plato  should  be  the  prime  favorite.  To 
them  Aristotle's  teacher,  with  his  great  vein  of  poetry, 
his  vivid  imagination,  his  love  of  roaming  at  large 
through  all  the  world  of  human  thought  and  action, 
was  greater  than  Aristotle  himself  with  his  systematic 
treatises,  his  more  formal  and  final  doctrines.  The 
Platonic  academy  in  which  Lorenzo  and  Poliziano  and 
the  noble  and  well-loved  lord  of  Mirandola  studied 
and  dreamed  and  crossed  swords  in  keen  dialectic  repre- 
sented, doubtless,  the  highest  point  of  the  intellectual 
Renaissance. 

But  whether  one  looks  at  the  painting,  the  poetry,  the 
scholarship,  the  sculpture,  the  architecture,  or  the  phi- 
losophy of  that  wonderful  age,  it  is  after  all  the  same  spirit 


I- 


'J4 


Italian  Cities 


^ 


i^\ 


in  all  that  fascinates  and  will  ever  fascinate  while  the  world 
stands.  It  was  one  of  the  ages  in  which  the  race  seems 
to  renew  its  youth.  Even  the  supreme  art  of  the  gener- 
ation that  followed,  the  art  of  the  sixteenth-century 
masters,  cannot  quite  thrill  with  the  glow  or  delight  with 
the  charm  that  Filippo  Lippi  and  Botticelli  give  us. 
Supreme  mastery  of  technique  and  majesty  of  vision  may 
compel  our  worship,  and  yet  one  may  still  turn  from  them 
to  this  age  of  enthusiasm,  this  age  of  immortal  youth. 
The  early  sixteenth-century  scholars  surpassed  Poliziano 
and  Pico  in  textual  criticism  and  in  defined  purism  of 
style;  they  never  approached  the  friends  of  Lorenzo  in 
real  genius  and  power,  and  as  to  their  chief,  the  central 
figure  of  this  golden  age  of  Florence, — well,  you  are  con- 
tent to  view  him  as  neither  a  philanthropist  nor  the  tyran- 
nical destroyer  of  his  city's  liberties.  You  are  inclined  to 
condemn  Lorenzo  little  more  than  you  condemn  Cxsar. 
It  seems  an  ungracious  thing,  somehow,  to  pass  harsh 
sentence  against  a  man  of  his  type,  so  lovable,  so  open- 
mmJ^d,  and  so  great.  So  you  put  aside  accusing  voices, 
even  tl  e  stern  thunder-note  of  Savonarola,  and  salute  the 
JFlorentine  banker-prince  and  poet-scholar  across  the  cen- 
turies with  something  of  affection.  Even  Italy  produced 
few  men  like  him.  In  a  cool,  very  quiet  little  chapel  in 
the  heart  of  Florence,  not  five  minutes*  walk  from  the  old 
palace  of  the  Medici,  all  that  is  mortal  of  him  still  lies  in 
its  stone  coffin,  brooded  over  by  a  beautiful,  unfinished 
Madonna  by  Michelangelo,  "After  life's  fitful  fever  he 
sleeps  well."  Others  of  his  name  came  after  him,  and 
in  time  they  made  themselves  Grand  Dukes  of  Tuscany, 
but  the  full  bloom,  the  exuberance,  the  freedom,  and  half- 
unconscious  power  of  the  Renaissance  was  over.     There 


;      < 


The  Florence  of  the  Medici 


»J5 


never  really  was  found  a  successor  to  the  keen  mind,  the 
broad  scholarship,  the  clear-sighted  statesmanship,  the 
catholic  taste,  the  kindly  care  for  artists  and  poets, 
the  joyous  contact  with  the  whole  spiritual  blossoming  of 
his  marvelous  time,  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 


11    :'■  • 

ff 
ll 


CHAPTER   VIII 

RENAISSA  \CE  ROME 

Not  long  ago  you  walked  about  the  Forum  and  the 
Palatine  and  meditated  on  the  splendors  of  ancient  Rome. 
You  stand  now  in  the  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's  with  the  mes- 
sage of  Renaissance  Rome  everywhere  about  you.  And 
you  are  conscious  of  a  long  gap  between  the  two.  You 
have  had  glimpses  into  the  Middle  Ages  as  you  studied 
Assisi,  Genoa,  or  Florence,  but  what  of  Rome  all  this 
time!  Indeed,  there  seem  to  be  many  centuries  un- 
accounted for  as  far  as  all  Italy  ,^  concerned.  It  cannot 
be  helped  here,  perhaps,  but  truth  to  tell,  you  are  inclined 
to  suspect  that  to  a  wocf.illy  large  majority  Europe — 
except  for  the  barbarian  invasions,  the  Crusades,  and  the 
towering  figure  of  Charlemagne  is  practically  non-exist- 
ent from  the  days  of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. And  this  is  especially  true  of  Italy.  University 
students  to  whom  Pericles  and  Cicero  are  familiar  friends, 
are  content  to  leap  in  their  survey  of  the  past  from  the 
reign  of  Augustus— not  to  the  Renaissance,  but  to  the 
later  Middle  Ages — from  the  end  of  the  Roman  republic 
to  the  age  of  Innocent  III.  Students  of  literature  pass  in 
their  reading  and  thinking  from  Virgil  and  Horace,  or  at 
latest  Tacitus  and  Juvenal  and  Pliny,  to  Dante  and 
Petrarch.  And  only  those  who  are  specifically  interested 
■n  the  history  of  the  Christian  Church  know  anything  real 
or  vital  about  those  ages  during  which  the  civilization  of 
Rome  was  subtly  passing  on  its  heritage  to  the  Teuton 

136 


Renaissance  Rome 


<37 


settlers  and  conquerors,  the  ages  that  saw  the  passing  of 
the  classical  ideals  and  their  displacement  by  the  half- 
Christian  and  half-pagan  civilization  that  one  sees  fully 
formed  in  the  thirteenth  century. •■  Every  one  knows  the 
names,  if  that  were  all,  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  of  St.  Augus- 
tine, of  St.  Benedict,  of  Gregory  the  Great,  of  the  vener- 
able Bede.  But  of  the  ideals  and  .' .  ubles  and  temptations 
and  ways  of  thinking  that  made  up  the  spiritual  life  of 
these  men,  of  the  enormous  influence  and  character  of  the 
early  and  medieval  Church,  of  the  incidents  and  conflicts 
and  human  needs  connected  with  the  rise  of  the  papal 
power  up  to  the  time  of  Innocent  III.,  few  but  specialists 
care. 

Yet  this  is  by  no  means  good.  It  is  true  that  in  those 
centuries  there  was  much  confusion  and  darkness,  but  out 
of  this  chaos  great  things  came;  in  its  midst  toiled  a 
chosen  remnant  of  strong  men;  and  it 
possible  to  urderstand  the  fruit  of  *'  . 
of  these  men,  i  e  thought  and  deeds  s 
century  giants — Innocent  III.,  Francis,  L  , 
Aquinas,  D.  nte — without  a  sympathetic 
the  ages  that  went  before.  You  are  Y 
think  that  the  very  use  of  the  term  "Middle  Ages"  is  a 
pity.  Even  the  idea  with  which  you  were  inclined  in 
Assisi  to  be  satisfied,  that  the  Middle  Ages  were  pecu- 
liarly a  time  of  education,  is  only  suggestive,  not 
entirely  adequate.  Your  soul  rebels  a  little  at  the  con- 
clusion that  those  centuries  had  no  value  in  themselves, 
that  they  really  need  an  apology,  or  that  they  can  only  be 


is  never  quite 
ichievements 
fn '  'hirteenth 

i!f\iC,  r-^omas 

y  Tcdafi  jn  of 

■'.  i.ied  to 


'  This  defect  may  be 
lafc,'e  of  tfie   Middle  Agt 


n  a  measure  rectified  by  Taylor's  "Classical  Heri- 
Lecky's  "  History  of  European  Morals,"  avoiding, 


perhaps,  the  philosophical  hrst  chapter,  and  Gibl)on"s  "Decline  and  Fall 
liur'v  o  ctiKiun  ul  (jibbuii  iix9  broUKhi  iiial  iiidrvelous  and  ever-uew 


date  in  point  of  scholarship. 


I  work  up  to 


-•  ^ 


138 


Italian  Cities 


deemed  fruitful  in  the  light  of  the  Renaissance.  Boethius, 
Boniface,  Alfred  the  Great,  and  Abelard  were  as  great 
in  their  way  as  the  poets  and  painters  of  the  fifteenth 
century. 

Every  century,  surely,  from  Augustine  to  Charle- 
magne and  on  to  Dante  and  on  still  to  Lorenzo  and 
Michelangelo,  has  its  own  greatness  and  its  own  problems, 
its  own  place  in  the  slow,  steady  stream  of  European 
development.  The  fact  that  for  some  centuries  there  was 
lost  the  sense  of  literary  style,  of  artis^  beauty  and  reality, 
of  serene  breadth  and  depth  of  philosophic  vision,  makes 
us  call  those  centuries  the  Dark  Ages,  and  ignore  them  or 
call  them  transitional.  We  forget  that  an  age  may  produce 
no  cltt osic  literature,  no  great  art,  and  no  supreme  master  of 
philosophy,  and  yet  may  contain  great  thinkers,  soldiers, 
and  statesmen.  Their  problems  were  not  those  of  fifth- 
century  Athens  or  Renaissance  Florence.  They  did  not 
demand  for  their  solution  a  Pericles,  a  Sophocles,  a 
Lorenzo,  or  a  Botticelli.  Rather  did  the  age  demand  iron 
wills,  ideals  true  at  bottom  rather  than  refined  and  pain- 
fully thought  out,  purposes  sincere  and  stem,  religion 
childlike,  crude,  and  material  in  its  reality,  direct  and 
unquestioning  rather  than  balanced  and  analytic.  It  is 
natural,  perhaps,  that  we  should  judge  an  age  by  its  liter- 
ary  or  artistic  fruit.  Yet  such  a  standard  is  painfully 
inadequate.  Certainly  no  Virgil  or  Dante  was  produced 
in  the  eighth  century  or  the  eleventh.  The  philosophy  of 
the  "Dark  Ages"  was  barren— the  theology  fanciful  and 
metaphysical.  Yet  when  we  speak  of  the  intellectual 
stagnation  and  superstition  of  the  time  we  ignore  the 
statesmen  and  soldiers  who  laid  the  basis  of  the  new 
Europe,  the  lawyers  who  revived  the  heritage  of  Roman 


SI 


Renaissance  Rome 


«39 


jurisprudence,  the  popes  who  made  possible  the  Rome  of 
Hildebrand,  of  Innocent  III.,  and  of  Julius  II. 

Even  to  think  about  these  things— to  realize  that  the 
gap  in  oiir  knowledge  between  the  beginning  of  the  Roman 
Empire  and  the  fully  formed  systems  and  ideas  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  is  a  gap  in  our  minds  rather  than  in 
the  nature  of  things— is  worth  while.     You  cannot  fill  the 
gap,  but  it  is  something  to  see  it.     In  some  shadowy  way 
you  see  those  ages  no  longer  as  a  time  only  of  misery, 
darkness,  and  stagnation.     Each  century  you  see  thronged 
with  stern  knights,  wise  statesmen,  earnest  saints,  great 
kings,   and  mighty  pontiffs.     And  never  for  a  moment 
does  Italy  give  up  the  sceptre.     Her  temporal   power 
passes  from  her  indeed— only  to  prove  that  the  race  which 
produced  Rome  could  still  rule  the  world  in  spirit  and 
intellect  after  her  legions  had  been  conquered.     The  suc- 
cessors of  Caesar  and  Constantine  were  the  Bishops  of 
Rome.     And  through  the  long  period  of  torture,  when 
Italy  lay  mangled  and  torn  apart  by  aliens  and  by  her  own 
sons,  her  mighty  genius  continued  to  produce  scholars, 
saints,  and  leaders  of  men  in  the  calm,  inexhaustible  fruit- 
fulness  of  a  race  that  refused  to  die.     The  salvation  and 
union  of  Italy  was  not  yet  to  be.     But  Rome  was  still  the 
Eternal  City,  and  Italy  still,  in  some  measure,  led  the 
world. 

Ani  -ic-.f,  meditating  deeply  even  if  confusedly,  about 
the  past  ;  aie  Church,  and  the  amazing  history  of  these 
•i  ritual  .ulers  who  date  their  beginning  from  the  impetu- 
ous  Galilean  fisherman,  you  enter  St.  Peter's  and  look 
about  you.  Just  to  your  right  is  a  chapel  containing  a 
lovely  "Pieta,"  the  Madonna  holding  in  teariess  sorrow 
the  dead  body  of  her  Son,  carved  over  four  hundred  years 


* 


140 


Italian  Cities 


M 


ago  by  Michelangelo.'  It  is  not  what  you  would  have 
expected  from  the  ''terrible"  master,  this  lovely,  pitiful 
figure,  so  quiet  and  resigned  in  supremest  grief.  You 
know  it  is  not  like  his  other  work,  and  you  lean  now 
against  a  pillar  and  let  your  thoughts  drift  back  over  the 
centuries  to  the  time  when  the  earnest  young  Florentine 
in  Rome  saw  these  forms  of  beauty  in  a  block  of  marble 
and  wrought  the  1  into  shape. 

It  was  Lorenzo  who  saw  the  promise  of  great  things 
in  the  boy,  and  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  learn  his  art 
from  the  best  masters  and  the  best  models  in  Italy.  In 
the  schools  of  Florence,  the  gardens  of  San  Marco,  and 
the  palace  of  Lorenzo,  Michelangelo  spent  the  happiest 
years  of  his  life,  in  contact  with  the  best  minds  of  his 
time.  The  sterner,  serious  side  of  his  nature,  which  could 
never  have  been  far  from  the  surface,  was  awakened  and 
deepened  by  the  preaching  of  Savona/ola.  But  the 
mighty  friar  was  unable  to  wean  him  from  the  patron  who 
had  made  the  artistic  life  possible  to  him,  and  he  remained 
true  to  Lorenzo  until  his  ^eat  patron's  death,  in  1492. 
Times  began  to  change  then.  There  was  always  work  to 
be  done,  and  there  were  still  things  to  be  learned,  but 
Florence  was  no  longer  the  ideal  home  for  the  artist  that 
it  had  been.  So  Michelangelo,  after  some  restless  jour- 
neys, drifted  to  Rome,  and  it  was  there  after  he  had 
worked  for  a  time  quite  exclusively  on  antique  subjects, 
that  he  was  recalled  from  pagan  to  Christian  ideals  of 
beauty  and  strength  by  the  news  of  Savonarola's  death. 
The  tragic  end  of  the  great  reformer  moved  deeply  the 

'The  standard  lives  of  Michclangeio  are  those  oi  Grimm  and  Symonds. 
Much  interestiriK  and  truitful  comment  on  his  work  will  be  (ound  in  Freeman's 
"Italian  '^culjituie  ol  the  Renaissance,"  and  in  Heronson's  'Florentine 
Pamters,"  and  two  admirable  numbers  of  the  Masters  in  Art  magazine  are 
devoted  to  him  as  sculptor  and  paintvf. 


Renaissance  Rome 


141 


soul  of  the  young  artist  who  had  once  listened  so  earnestly 
to  the  Dominican's  solemn  warnings  of  the  wrath  to  come. 
And  the  artistic  expression  of  this  return  of  softness,  of 
pitiful  sympathy,  of  sorrow  for  the  death  of  Christ  and 

the  woes  of  humanity,  was  the  "Pieta."    

You  are  astonished  to  find  how  little  else  there  is  in 
St.  Peter's  that  especially  appeals  to  you.  No  one  of 
English  race  can  look  quite  unmoved,  indeed,  at  the 
monument  to  the  exiled  princes  of  the  House  of  Stuart, 
with  Canova's  beautiful  figures  at  its  base;  the  inscrip- 
tion to  James  III.  has  an  odd  look,  but  there  is  enough 
charm  of  romance  attached  to  the  memories  of  that  ill- 
starred  family  to  make  even  an  ardent  believer  in  the 
Revolution  unwilling  to  protest  against  the  empty  title. 
Strange  surely,  to  have  memories  of  Bonnie  Prince 
Charlie  brought  to  one  in  St.  Peter's!  Then  in  the 
sacristy,  to  come  back  to  things  Italian,  there  are  a  few 
interesting  small  pictures  by  Giotto,  with  the  same  general 
characteristics  that  you  have  noted  in  his  work  at  Assisi 
and  Florence.  And  with  them  are  the  lovely  angels  of 
Melozzo  da  Forli.  But  in  the  church  itself  you  find 
chiefly  vast  space,  second-rate  carving,  and  great  pictures 
or  mosaics  that  you  turn  away  from  with  indifference. 
Altogether  you  are  an  ^  idity,  incomprehensible  and  un- 
profitable to  the  voluble  guides  who  expatiate  about  the 
splendors  of  the  church  to  the  Cook  tourists.  And  you 
are  content  to  remain  so.  You  stroll  meditatively  about, 
ponder  over  the  decent  sense  of  propriety  that  clothed  in 
metal  drapery  the  nude  statues  in  the  choir,  gaze  with 
much  grave  reflection  at  the  old  bronze  statue  of  St.  Peter 
witii  its  shining  stump  of  a  toe  worn  away  with  ages  of 
kissing,  shiver  a  little  at  the  coldness  and  hugeness  of  the 


142 


Italian  Cities 


Sistme  Chapel.     As  you  turn  away  from  the  strange  1 
statue  ,f    he  Apostle,  an  earnest-faced  mother  w'  h 
pathetic  devotion  m  her  eyes  lifts  her  wee  boy  to  kiss  the 
bnght  spot  on  the  bronze  foot.     The  act  is  a  praye   att. 
all,  and  you  have  a  feeling  that  the  God  of  St   Peter  wil 
hear  it  and  answer.  "' 

gail^coltd  s'  '"'""  .  ""^^  '"^  ^^^  "^ht  door,  pass  the 
gaily  colored  Swiss  juard.  climb  the  long  stairs,  and  in  a 
moment  find  yourself  inside  the  doors  of  The  famous  room 
Right  before  you.  covering  with  one  huge  frescoed  design 
he  whole  end  wall  of  the  hall,  is  Michelangelo's  "Z 
Judgn^ent.-    Above  you.  stretching  from  end'to  end  of  th 

neglect  for  the  moment,  mteresting  as  they  are.  It  is  not 
often,  truly,  that  you  would  turn  away  from  Bottic  „  and 
Prntuncchio.   but  here  Michelangelo  dominat^"^     an' 

aTleaTt  Tbe"  '"''  '''  ''''''  ^'"  '''"'''  '"  ^^^  ^'isti 
at  least   to  be  supreme.     Flat  on  the  Qoor  you  stretch 

yourself   scorning  the  conventions,  with  your  head  on  a 

couple  of  books,  and  gaze  upward  at  the  fi^s  that  seem 

to^mo^ve  and  strain  and  radiate  strength  anf  energ3.  on  tl^ 

acts'lTcZ-""".?''  '"'^'^P'  -presenting  the  various 
acts  of  Creation  attract  you  more  than  those  at  the  other 
end  representing  rhe  scenes  in  the  Garden  and  the  inci- 
dent, of  the  Deluge.  The  expulsion  of  the  guilty  paL 
from  Eden  ,s  impressive,  surely,  but  you  cafno  he  o 
remembenng  Masaccio',  rendering  of  J  same  s  b  e.t  L 

yuercia  »  m  the  great  fountain  at  Siena,  and  you  are  not 


<  ■:: 
-I 
o  -5 

O    ac 


I  ■  i 

;   1 


1.A  .  m.        :^-. 


Renaissance  Konic 


'4J 


sure  that  Michelangelo  has  added  anything  to  your  con- 
ception of  the  dignity  and  grief  of  Adam  and  Eve,  the 
horror  and  completeness  of  their  fall.     But  the  Creation 
of  the  Sun  and  Moon,  the  Creation  of  Adam— these  pro- 
voke no   comparison  whatever.      The   tremendous   life- 
giving  form  of  the  Creator— the  listless,  perfectly  molded 
figure  of  the  first  man  as  the  finger  of  the  Almighty 
touches   him  and  awakens  him  to  the  first  drawing  of 
breath  and  the  first  wondering  look  at  the  world— these 
Michelangelo  makes  real  to  you,  fills  with  incomparable 
vitality.     And  the  Prophets  and  Sibyls,  too,  Jewish  and 
Gentile  foretellers  of  the  Christ — every  one  of  them  worth 
studying,  and  some,  like  the   Jeremiah  and  Zachariah, 
quite  unforgettable.     As  your  eye  rests  on  these  colossal 
figures,  and  drifts  from  them  to  the  nude  forms  in  every 
posture  that  flank  the  main  groups,  you  increasingly  realize 
the  truth  of  the  saying,  that  in  his  grip  of  the  significance 
of  the  human  form  and  his  power  of  rendering  that  sig- 
nificance in  every  phase,  Michelangelo  is  quite  supreme. 
His  power  seems  to  show  itself  in  the  form  rather  than  in 
the  face,  and,  as  all  the  world  knows,  in  strength,  strain,  and 
stress  rather  than  in  repose,  meditation,  and  tenderness. 
But  exceptions  to  such  a  statement  occur  to  you  at  once ; 
it  is  only  true  as  a  very  general  comment.     And  as  you 
scan  form  after  form  you  are  more  and  more  lost  in 
astonishment  at  the  restlessness  and  many-sided  power  of 
that  swift  hand  that   turned  from  the  portrayal  of  the 
brooding  Jeremiah,  thinking  deeply,  with  head  resting  on 
hi?  hand,  to  the  Creator  of  the  Sun  and  Moon,  .adiating 
swift    movement   and   vibrant    with   force— then   to   the 
superb  long  curves  of  a  resting  youth,  then  to  the  hawk- 
eyed,   eager  old   Ezekiel,  then  to  another  nude  youth, 


-  rt,  tcra  z-j 


144 


Italian  Cities 


straining  with  supple  muscles,  his  black  eyes  darting  rest- 
less impatience,  and  his  long  raven  hair  blowing  out 
straight  in  the  wind. 

And  all  this  was  done  by  the  hand  that  carved  the 
"Pieta"!     Simply  to  believe  that  a  sculptor  painted  such 
a  figure  as  that  of  Adam  is  not  so  impossible.     But  the 
repose  of  the  "Pieta,"   its  quietness  and  soft  beauty, 
seems  singularly  remote  from  the  restlessness,  the  force, 
of  the  figures—divine  and  human — on  the  ceiling  here. 
An  interval  of  about  ten  years «  separates  the  tw  i  works. 
With  Michelangelo,  as  with  few  other  Italian  artists,  the 
personal  equation  is  a  very  potent  one,  and  a  glance  at 
♦he  ten  years  clears  up  all  of  the  mystery  except  the 
unfathomable  mystery  of  genius.     After  producing  the 
"Pieta"  he   had   drifted   back   to  Florence.     There   he 
carved  for  the  republic  the  colossal  "David,"  Florence 
facing  her  foes,  and  then  while  he  was  preparing  to  do 
yet  greater  'hings  for  his  city,  he  received  his  momentous 
summons  to  Rome  at  the  end  of    1 504.     The  warlike 
Giuliano  della  Rovere  had  become  Pope  Julius  II.     The 
"Pieta"  and  the  "David"  had  made  Michelangelo  the 
most  famous  sculptor  in  Italy,  and  now  he  was  given  a 
commission  by  the  new  pope  to  make  a  mausoleum  more 
splendid  than  any  in  the  world.     Michelangelo  accepted 
the  task  with  enthusiasm,  and  submitted  a  plan  magnifi- 
cent enough  even  for  the  ambitious  pontiff.     The  Church 
of  St.  Peter,  vast  and  old  and  crowded  with  sacred  tra- 
ditions, was  not  large  enough  for  the  great  tomb,  so  a 
new  St.  Peter's — the  present  one — was  begun  to  contain 
it.     Months  were  now  spent  in  the  quarries  of  Carrara. 

'  Michelangelo  was  born  in  m75-    The  Pieta  was  finished  probably  some 
time  ID  UV^    "iue  Sistine  ceiling  was  commenced  in  the  spring  ot  1509- 


.  ^  . ,!.>.■  «-. 


TBf^ 


Renaissance  Rome 


H5 


All  the  marble  needed  for  the  tomb  was  hewn  out  under 
the  sculptor's  own  eye,  and  the  toil  and  anxiety  of  the 
whole  tedious  process  of  getting  it  safely  from  northern 
Tuscany  to  Rome  was  repaid  only  by  the  greatness  of  the 
reward  to  come,  in  congenial  labor  and  in  sure  and  abiding 
fame. 

But  the  splendid  plan  was  never  carried  out.     The 
enthusiasm  of  the  pope  cooled;    it  became  harder  and 
harder  to  get  the  money  needed;  and  at  last  Michelangelo, 
hindered  and  interrupted  until  his  spirit  was  chafed  beyond 
endurance,  abruptly  left   Rome  and  went  to  Florence. 
Such  independence  was  by  no  means  to  the  taste  of  the 
haughty  Julius,  but  it  took  command  after  command  to 
bring  the  equally  haughty  sculptor  to  terms  of  reconcili- 
ation.    When  they  finally  met  and  renewed  their  friend- 
ship   at   Bologna   it   was  on  a   basis  that   injured  the 
self-respect  of  neither.     But  if  Michelangelo's  pride  was 
soothed  he  was  given  little  satisfaction  in  regard  to  the 
great  tomb.     For  two  years  pope  and  sculptor  busied 
themselves  with  other  matters,  and  when  at  length  Michel- 
angelo found  himself  once  more  in  Rome  in  the  spring  of 
1508,  eager  to  renew  the  work  which  had  never  left  his 
mind,  he  was  only  given  a  new  commission,  the  decoration 
of  the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine  Chapel.     He  did  not  want  to 
do  it.     He  would  infinitely  have  preferred  to  work  away 
at  the  tomb  which  he  had  designed  three  years  before, 
and  for  which  he  had  already  blocked  out  his  "Moses." 
But  the  pope's  will  prevailed.     With  a  sadder,  sterner, 
angrier  heart   than  of  old,  the   painter-sculptor  worked 
sullenly  on  alone  on  the  high  scaffolding,  painting  with  a 
turious  energy  that  left  liltle  time  for  eating  or  sleeping. 
It  must  ha-,  c  been  a  sight  worth  seeing— the  stubborn, 


i;  If 


146 


Italian  Cities 


proud  painter  deigning  little  attention  to  the  fiery,  pur^ 
poseful  old  pope  who  employed  him.  until  Julius  threatened 
to  throw  down  scaffold  and  paintor  togoth  r  if  the  ceiling 
were  not  shown  him.  Then  Michelangelo  yielded,  and 
bade  the  workmen  remove  the  timbers  and  show  to  the 
wondering  priests  and  people  the  half-fin.shcd  work.  As 
soon  as  he  could  he  resumed  the  task  with  tireless  energy, 
and  when  it  was  completed  he  turned  eagerly  again  to  his 
chisel  and  marble. 

In  the  year   1513.  Pope  M""^  '^'^^'  ^"'^   ^^"  ^'' 
Giovanni  de'  Medici,  son  of  Lorenzo,  reigned  in  his  stead 
And  you  rise  from  the  stone  floor  of  the  Sistine  an^  find 
your  way  to  the  rooms  decorated  for  this  courtly  Floren- 
tine man  of  the  world,  by  Raphael.     The  fiery  soul  of  the 
warlike  Julius  had  found  something  kindred  in  the  mighty, 
self-willed  genius  of  Michelangelo.     He  was  content  to 
toil  away  at  his  projects  of  diplomacy  and  war  while  the 
artist  drew  from  the  marble  or  threw  on  the  plaster  great 
shapes  whose  immortal  force  inspired  and  exhilarated  h.m. 
But  the  son  of  Lorenzo  was  less  fond  of  the  forceful,  the 
colossal,  the  spiritually  disturbing,  aud  to  him  the  graceful 
genius  of  Raphael  was  .nrinitely  more  attractive  than  the 
uncontrollable  might  of  Michelangelo.     We  need  not  think 
the  less  of  him  for  that.     After  all.  the  art  of  Michel- 
angelo  even  now.   as   a  rule,   excites  awe  and   amazed 
admiration  rather  than  love;  it  exhilarates  far  more  than 
it  attracts:  it  is  wonderful  rather  than  purely  beautiful. 
And  we  need  not  marvel  pX  any  one  turning  from  him  to 
the  painter  whose  instinct  for  Un-eliness.   whose  radiant 
love  of  all  things  beautiful,  tender,  and  good  have  made 
the  name  r.f  Raphael-to  quote  a  great  critic -the  most 
famous  and  beloved  in  modern  art. 


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Renaissance  Rome 


H7 


Raphael  was  a  citizen  of  Urbino.'     His  chief  early 
teacher  was  Perugino,  who  as  his  name  implies,  was  a 
citizen  of  Perugia.     Both  cities  are  comparatively  small 
Umbrian  towns,  of  some  note  and  power  at  times,  but 
without  at  all  the  rank  and  greatness  of  Florence,  Venice, 
Rome,  or  even  Siena.     And  as  you  ponder  over  these 
things,  you  see  why  these  painters  whose  places  of  birth 
and  study  were  the  smaller  towns  of  central  Italy '  were 
more  cosmopolitan,  less  characterized  by  the  hall-mark  of 
any  one  school— in  one  sense  at  any  rate— than  any  of  the 
other  great  artists  of  the  Renaissance.     The  Florentines 
are  deeply  spiritual;  the  Venetians  are  lovers  of  the  splen- 
did; the  Central  Italians,  not  dominated  by  the  masterful 
spirit  of  republican,  ideal-loving  Florence,  or  rich,  beauty- 
loving  Venice,  could  learn  of  both.     And  so  Coreggio, 
Perugino,   Pinturicchio,  Melozzo  da  Forli,  Raphael,  and 
others  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  accordi  .j  to  the  influ- 
ence of  a  great  master,  the  neighborhood  of  a  great  city, 
or  the  impulses  of  indiv'dual  genius,  develop  beauty  and 
sweetness  surpassing  Florence,  tenderness  and  spirituality 
known  to  few  of  the  Venetians,  and  a  sense  of  space  and 
landscape  -a  refreshing  spaciousness  in  their  composition 
—which  is  quite  their  own.     One  might  easily  suppose, 
then,  that   if   these   painters   of  soft,   lovely  faces   and 
forms,  devout,  tender  Madonnas,  spacious,  gaily  colored 
pageants,  and  romantic  fairyland  backgrounds  developed 
among  them  a  really  pre-eminent  genius  he  might  possibly 
be  supreme,  greater  even  than  the  painters  of  Florence 
and  Venice.     Such,  perhaps,  though  the  superlative  in 
such  matters  is  alwa>  j  unsafe,  was  Raphael. 

So  as  you  stand  before  the  "School  of  Athens"  you 

'  See  Berenson's  "  Central  Italian  Painters  j(  the  Renaissance." 


148 


Italian  Cities 


{*; 


\m 


really  cannot  remomber  any  painting  you  have  ever  seen 
so  entirely  beyond  criticism,  so  absolutely  worthy  of  study 
in  every  detail.     The  stately,  gracious  forms  of  Aristotle 
and  Plato  and  the  throng  of  soldiers,  thinkers,  and  poets 
grouped  about  them  in  this  lordly  hall — these  surely  give 
us  humanity  at  its  best.     Every  foot  of  the  fresco  we 
should  wish  to  remember  as  we  wish  to  keep  in  our  minds 
the  harmonies  of  Handel  and  Wagner,  the  lines  of  Shakes- 
peare.    And  it  is  so  with  all  of  these  frescoes.*     It  may 
be  that  other  paintings  will  give  you  more  intimate  pleas- 
ure, for  that  is  a  matter  of  temperament  and  training,  just 
as  som-     ake  more  pleasure  from  Wordsworth  and  Keats 
than  from  Browning.     Your  own  greatest  joy  may  be  in 
the  fifteenth-century  Florentines  or  the  earlier  Venetians. 
But  even  so  you  would  never  dream  of  saying  that  the 
work  of  Filippino  Lippi  or  Carpaccio  is  as  great  as  this. 
Their  work  is  very  lovely,  and  you  get  from  it  the  joy  of 
innocent,  care-free  existence,  of  simple  devotion,  of  with- 
drawal from  the  bustling,  material  side  of  life.     But  it  is 
as  if  you  were  to  compare  Scott's  romantic  novels  with 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare— "The  Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick 
Spens"  with  "The  Tempest."     The  thing  is  impossible, 
of  course,  but  it  is  quite  a  sufficiently  accurate  parallel. 
Your  affection  for  Scott  or  for  the  old  ballads  may  be 
actually  more  keen  and  intimate  than  for  Shakespeare: 
your  responsiveness  to  Carpaccio  more  quick  and  delight- 
some than  to  Rap'iael.     But  if  you  put  aside  for  the  time 
being  your  personal  temperament,  you  feel  in  spite  of 
yourself,  as  you  stand  before  "The  School  of  Athens,"  a 
certain  commanding  strength  and  sureness,  a  hold  on  the 


•  Students  are  especially  advised  to  consider  the  "School  of  Athens,"  the 
"Disputa,  "  the  "  Incendio  del  Borgo,  "  and  the  "  Farnassus." 


Renaissance  Rome 


149 


great  things  of  life,  a  large  and  joyous  view  of  the  world 
of  truth  and  beauty  in  all  its  phases  which  reminds  you  of 
Shakespeare  himself.  You  do  not  love  Carpaccio,  Bellini, 
and  the  Florentines  the  less  —they  show  you  a  phase  of 
life  to  which  you  turn  with  ever-fresh  fascination— but 
Raphael  is  on  a  higher,  grander  plane  nevertheless,  and 
breathes  that  rarer  air  which,  in  Italian  painting  at  any 
rate,  is  only  shared  by  Giotto,  Leonardo.  Michelangelo, 
and  perhaps  Titian  and  Tintoretto.  And  you  are  not 
sure  that  he  does  not  overtop  them  all. 

If  it  so  happens  that  you  were  trained  a  strict  Protestant 
—a  fact  which  is  scarcely  an  aid  to  your  sympathetic 
understanding  of  Italian  art— it  is  somewhat  a  shock  to 
you  to  realize  the   new  attitude  you  insensibly  assume 
towards  Pope  Leo  X.     He  was  the  pope  who  excommuni- 
cated Luther,— very  antich-ist  to  the  first   Protestants. 
Yet  as    you    remember   Raphael's  portrait  of    him   in 
Florence,  and  think  of  him  now  here  in  the  Vatican,  his 
image  does  not  come  to  you  as  that  of  a  devil.     His  face  as 
Raphael  gives  it  to  you  is  that  of  a  pleasant,  well-informed 
man  who  enjoyed  life  to  the  full,  whose  mind  and  tastes 
were  cultivated  and  refined,  and  whose  heart  was  quite 
worldly  and  probably  selfish.     He  was  indeed  an  inter- 
esting type  of  these  closing  days  of  Italy's  golden  age. 
He  had  known  Florence  in  her  most  brilliant  years.     His 
teacher,  Poliziano,  had  been  the  greatest  scholar  in  Europe, 
a  lyric  poet  of  the  first  rank,  and  the  closest  friend  of 
Lorenzo.     The  group  of   men  who  had  given  him  his 
boyish   ideals  had   been   philosophers,   poets,   dreamers, 
painters,  to  whom  in  the  main  Plato  was  far  more  inter- 
esting than  St.  Paul.     They  had  not  been  bad  men,  and 
they  left  the  world  much  that  was  good.     Only  they  and 


\ 


150 


Italian  Cities 


their  young  pupil,  this  Giovanni  de*  Medici,  made  cardi- 
nal at  fourteen,  and  elected  pope  in  1 5 13,  not  as  the 
saintliest  of  the  candidates,  but  as  the  cleverest  and  best- 
liked,  were  practically  pagans.  While  you  are  studying 
Raphael,  indeed,  you  look  at  his  master  and  1  end  with 
much  tolerance.  You  feel  that  you  would  have  much 
enjoyed  a  conversation  with  Pope  Leo  yourself— possibly 
more  than  with  so  stern  a  saint  as  Gregory  VII.,  who 
could  not  nearly  so  well  have  entered  into  a  mooi-.n  stu- 
dent's point  of  view.  But  you  must  remember  that 
Luther  had  not  and  could  not  have  your  twentieth-cen- 
tury willingness  to  take  a  man  as  you  find  him.  You  do 
not  seek  in  Leo,  you  say,  an  Augustine  or  Hildebrand, 
but  a  son  of  Lorenzo  and  a  friend  of  Raphael.  Quite  so, 
\  but  Luther's  demand  was  that  the  head  of  the  Church 
{  should  represent  in  life  and  word  the  spirit  of  the  Church's 
Founder.  Leo's  worldliness,  his  love  of  pagan  culture, 
and  his  utter  indifferenc3  to  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  were 
to  the  German's  intensely  moral  and  religious  nature  an 
abomination.  And  we  have  to  take  both  views  if  we 
would  understand  how  this  splendid  edifice  of  Renaissance 
culture— so  marvelous  in  its  beauty  that  the  world  will 
never  let  its  memory  fade— rested  on  so  frail  a  base  of 
righteousness  and  soundness  of  heart  that  it  tottered  and 
fell  at  the  very  summit  of  its  glory. 

For  it  came  to  pass  in  the  year  1527  when  another 
Medicean  pope,  Clement  VII.,  held  the  throne  of  St, 
Peter,  that  an  army  of  Germans  and  Spaniards  fell  upon 
Rome  at  the  bidding  of  the  young  Emperor  Charles  V., 
and  when  the  sack  was  over,  there  was  left  only  the  ashes 
of  the  city's  greatness :  Of  the  group  of  scholars  and 
artists  who  had  known  and  worked  with  Raphrei  and 


E 


Renaissance  Rome  iri 

Michelangelo,  and  who  had  seen  the  new  St.  Peter's  begun 
by  Bramante,  some  were  killed,  some  imprisoned,  some 
worn  out  by  cruel  treatment  and  privation,  some  driven 
mad  by  the  destruction  of  all  they  valued,  and  some  sent 
naked  into  exile.  The  Rome  of  Julius  II.  and  Leo  X. 
had  fallen  indeed. 

But  one  of  the  great  group  survived  the  sack  of  Rome 
and  the  final  enslavement  of  Florence  a  few  years  later. 
To  Michelangelo  work  was  as  ever  a  spirtual  necessity, 
but  the  restless,  fiery  genius  that  demanded  outlet  through 
his  brush  and  chisel  had  to  bow  to  men  of  the  race  that 
had  destroyed  his  city  and  country.     The  tyrants  who 
spared  his  life  demanded  work  from  him.     Terrible  was  his 
response.     The  tombs  in  the  Medici  Chapel,  the  fresco 
of  the  "Last  Judgment"  in  the  Sistine,— these  are  the 
great  artist's  mighty  protest,  his  passion^ite  condemnation 
of  the  generation  that  was  enslaving  Italy  and  tearing  her 
to  pieces.     As  you  stand  before  that  tremendous  creation 
on  the  end  wall  of  the  Chapel,  you  no  longer  turn  away  in 
astonished  revolt  from  the  terrible  figure  of  Christ,  huge 
and  threatening,  raising  one  arm  with  wrathfully  swelling 
muscles,  looking  down  with  hard  merciless  gaze  at  the 
writhing  forms  that  sh   nk  away  from  him  and  fall  shud- 
dering towards  the  abyss.     So  might  we,   had  we  the 
power,  paint  the  condemnation  of  those  who  destroyed 
our  liberties,  killed  and  tormented  the  learned,  the  good 
the  patriotic,  fillej  our  land  with  misery  and  mourning' 
and  blotted  out  all  that  we  held  precious.     Michelangelo 
was  bidden  to  paint  the  last  judgment.     He  did  it  as  in 
his  soul  he  saw  it.     And  age  after  age  that  dread  figure 
with  uplifted  arm,  those  whirling  forms  driven  in  unspeak- 
able horror  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord,  have  stood  as 


152 


Italian  Cities 


11 


a  menace  and  a  revelation,  silent  and  yet  ever  moving  and 
straining  on  the  painted  wall. 

At  the  other  end  of  Rome,  in  a  small  church  not  far 
from  the  Colosseum,  you  may  see  the  great  statue  that 
was  to  have  been  part  of  the  never-finished  tomb  of  Julius 
II.— the  "Moses"  over  which  Michelangelo  worked  and 
pondered  and  chafed  for  thirty  years.     It  is  his  r     'ter- 
piece.     If  you  stand  in  front  of  the  seated  pro:         you 
catch  a  passionate  gleam  in  his  eye,  a  blaze  of  v,.aih  that 
makes  you  think  he  is  about  to  leap  to  his  feet  and  level 
blasting  curses  at  the  apostate  Israelites  who  turn  from 
Jehovah  to  the  golden  calf.     It  is  something  of  the  spirit 
of  the  "Last  Judgment"  fresco.     But  if  you  stand  to  one 
side,  out  of  the  direct  range  of  the  marble  eyes,  the  face 
is  strong  and  patient.     The  wrath  you  feel  will  die  away. 
The  sin  will  be  condemned  and  the  sinners  punished,  but 
the  people  will  repent  and  be  pardoned,  and  the  leader 
will  at  last  guide  his  people  to  the  promised  land.     Per- 
haps it  is  the  sculptor's  final  message.     Relentless  judg- 
ment for  the  guilty,  but  hope,  infinite  need  of  patience, 
and  then  perhaps  after  weary  years  freedom  again,  and 
for  the  Italians,  too,  a  promised  land. 


m. 


and 

far 
that 
ilius 
and 
iter- 
you 
that 
level 
Tom 
pirit 

one 
face 
way. 

but 
ader 
Per- 
udg- 
ince, 

and 


CHAPTER  IX 

VENICE 

To  Venice  you  come,  at  last,  and  come,  r  ot  as  the 
thoughtless  tourist,  ignominiously  by  train  to  the  city's 
back  door,  but  across  the  lagoon  as  her  sailors  and  guests 
used  to  come  in  the  days  of  her  pride.     The  Giudecca  is 
on  your  ri-ht,  S.  Giorgio  is  befcre  you,  the  great  dome 
of  S.  Maria  della  Salute  to  your  left,  and  as  you  pass  the 
custom-house  you  look  beyond  it  up  the  wide  sweep  of 
the  Grand  Canal.     Right  before  you  are  the  two  great 
columns,  the  portico  of  the  republic,  and  the  Palace  of 
the  Doges  itself  with  the  tops  of  St.  Marks'  domes  peep- 
mg  over  it.     And  then  in  a  moment  you  land  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  that  lovely  building,  "most  dignified  and 
most   fair,"    which   holds   so   many  bright  and   terrible 
memories     behind    '.s    rcreen    of    rosy     marble.     You 
remember  the   h  r  ,   .    gray   pile   of    the   Palazzo 

Vecchio  of  Flor  .1  ,  rou  walk  beneath  the  graceful 
arcades  of  this  p.ibL.  palace  of  Venice.  Florence,  with 
all  her  fierce  republicanism,  her  alternate  fervor  of  reli- 
gion  and  frenzy  of  debauchery,  her  exile  of  patriots,  and 
her  defiance  of  tyrants,  you  have  learned  to  love  for  her 
humanity.  To  Rome  in  the  majesty  of  her  power  and  the 
majesty  of  her  desolation  you  have  bowed  down.  And 
now,  what  of  this  Sea-queen,  this  builder  of  fairy  palaces, 
this  city  of  sunny  smile  and  swift,  terrible  justice,  of  the 
jeweled  church,  and  the  quiet,  dark,  ugly  dungeons-this 
Venice? 

»53 


*Yrt-,: 


It 


•54 


Italian  Cities 


In  the  evil  times,  when  the  arm  of  Rome  had  become 
powerless  to  hold  back  the  hordes  of  barbarians,  and  when 
Goths,  Vandals,  Franks,  and  Saxons  swept  in  fierce  bands 
across  the  frontier  into  the  rich  provinces  of  Europe, 
there  came  also  a  whirlwind  of  savages  who  were  not 
Teutons — Asiatic  nomads,  called  by  the  terrified  provin- 
cials the  Huns.  Checked  by  a  defeat  in  northern 
France,  this  deluge — led  by  Attila,  scourge  of  God — 
penetrated  the  Alps  and  poured  down  into  Italy.  Old 
and  wealthy  cities  were  sacked  or  utterly  destroyed,  and 
many  of  the  survivors  among  the  citizens  and  the  country 
folk,  seeking  in  this  collapse  of  their  world  some  safe 
place  of  retreat,  came  to  the  shores  of  the  \driatic. 
Here  the  rivers  bringing  down  from  the  hills,  mud,  and 
debris,  had  formed  a  great  shallow  lagoon,  protected  from 
the  full  fury  of  the  sea  by  long  sand-bars  or  lidi,  and 
dotted  with  low  islands.  Here  then  the  refugees  found 
safety.  The  very  shallowness  of  the  lagoon  made  it 
dangerous  for  all  who  did  not,  by  cautious  observation 
and  long  practice,  know  its  intricate  deeper  channels. 
And  the  new  settlers  learned  soon  from  Constantinople 
the  art  of  building  a  peculiar  but  most  graceful  boat  of 
light  draught,  clumsy  and  unmanageable  in  unpracticed 
hands,  but  a  thing  instinct  with  beauty  and  swift  life  'vhen 
propelled  by  the  skilled  arm  of  the  Venetian  gondolier. 

So  in  thankfulness  and  hope  the  new  settlers  made  the 
best  of  their  islands,  fished  and  traded  for  a  living,  found 
that  this  aquatic  position  gave  them  peculiar  advantages 
for  the  coast  traffic,  and  soo  awoke  to  the  fact  that  in 
wealth  and  commercial  gre^.ness  they  might  become  the 
natural  heirs  of  the  storm-swept  cities  that  had  once  been 
their  homes.    In  697  they  drew  together  and  elected  a  doge, 


Venice 


'55 


who  made  the  settlement  of  Heraclea  his  headquarters. 
The  seat  of  government  was  soon  shiftcrl  to  Malamocco, 
and  then   after  an  attack  from  Charlemagne's  son  had 
shown  the  danger  of  so  exposed  a  site,  the  doge's  resi- 
(lence  was  finally  fixed  ;t  Rivo  Alto.     There  it  remained, 
and  there  arose  in  increasing  splendor  and  growing  beauty 
the  city  which  has  taken  to  itself  the  old  name  of  the 
whole  region.     Venetia,  the  Romans  called  it;  Venezia 
the  Italians  call  it;  to  us  of  the  English  race  it  is  Venice. 
Bit  by  bit  the  new  city  gained  the  chief  place  among 
the  trading  centers  of  northeastern  Italy.     Half  on  sea 
and  half  on  land,  with  the  Po  and  the  Adige  reaching  up 
into  the  interior,  with  the  most  used  passes  of  the  eastern 
Alps  within  easy  reach,  and  with  a  peace,  a  tradition  of 
stability  and  security  that  no  other  city  in  Italy  possessed, 
Venice  had  immense  advantages  of  position  that  her  citi- 
zen   used  to  the  full.     She  had  kept  up  her  communica- 
tion, too,  with  the  imperial  city  of  Constantinople.     For 
some  centuries,  indeed,  she  was  even  in  nominal  subjec- 
tion to  the  emperor.     And  with  the  control  of  the  Adriatic 
which  came  to  her  in  due  time,  the  trade  to  the  Bosphorus 
and  the  Levant  easily  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Vene- 
tian merchants.     Her  ships,  like  those  of  her  rival  Genoa, 
carried  the  Crusaders  to  Syria,  bringing  back  rich  cargoes 
and  much  world-wisdom.      Holding  proudly  and  scorn- 
fully aloof   from   torn   and   struggling  Italy,— far  more 
interested  in  the  carrying  trade  of  the  Adriatic  and  the 
East  than  in  anything  the  land  could  give  her,  except  con- 
signments of  merchandise,— holding  out  one  hand  to  the 
East  and    the  other,  not  to  Italy  particu.arly,  but  to  all 
Europe,  and  especially  the  countries  north  of  the  Alps, 
Venice  developed,  as  the  centuries  passed  by,  a  separate 


156 


Italian  Cities 


individuality,  a  separate  civic  character,  as  different  from 
that  of  Florence,  let  us  say,  as  Rome  from  Athens. 

Indeed,  as  you  see  the  liberal-limited  monarchy  of  the 
earlier  centuries,  almost  a  democracy  under  a  freely  elected 
doge,  gradually  give  place  to  the  rule  of  the  merchant 
princes;  as  you  see  these  harden  into  a  wealthy  and  ex- 
clusive class,  so  that  the  people  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
doge  on  the  other,  find  themselves  more  and  more  power- 
less, their  hands  more  and  more  firmly  tied;  as  you  see 
Venice  thus  becoming  an  oligarchy,  the  analogy  with  Rome 
becomes  more  and  more  stri)'ing.  And  "though  the  asso- 
ciations and  the  scale  of  the  two  were  so  different,  though 
Rome  had  its  hills  and  its  legions,  and  Venice  its  lagoons 
and  its  galleys,  the  long  empire  of  Venice,  the  heir  of 
Carthage,  and  predecessor  of  England  on  the  seas,  the 
great  aristocratic  republic  of  a  thousand  years,  is  the  only 
empire  that  has  yet  matched  Rome  in  length  and  steadi- 
ness of  tenure.  Brennus  and  Hannibal  were  not  resisted 
with  greater  constancy  than  Doria  and  Louis  XIII. ;  and 
that  great  aristocracy,  Iotio:  so  proud,  so  high-spirited,  so 
intelligent,  so  practical,  which  combined  the  enterprise  and 
wealth  of  merchants,  the  self-devotion  of  soldiers  and 
gravity  of  senators,  with  the  uniformity  and  obedience  of  a 
religious  order,  may  compare  without  shame  its  Giustini- 
ani,  and  Zenos,  and  Morosini  with  Roman  Fabii  and 
Claudii.  And  Rome  could  net  be  more  contrasted  with 
Athens  than  Venice  with  Italian  and  contemporary  Flor- 
ence— stability  with  fitfulnesr  independence  impregnable 
and  secure  with  a  short-lived  and  troubled  liberty;  empire 
meditated  and  achieved  with  a  course  of  barren  intrigues 
and  quarrels." 

So  Venice  grew  ever  more  splendid  in  her  pride,  her 


Venice 


»57 


beauty,  and  her  power,  ever  victorious,  ever  expanding  in 
her  empire  and  her  trade,  interfering  in  her  lordly  way  in 
the  politics  of  Italy  whenever  it  suited  her  to  do  so,  or 
standing  aside  in  just  as  lordly  indifference.      Her  citizens, 
proud  of  her  and  adoring  her,  sacrificed  all  for  her,  and 
cared  little  that  their  ancient  liberty  was  gone.     Her  only 
rivals,  Pisa  and  Genoa,  declined  and  fell  from  their  high 
estate.     Pisa's  greatness  ended  with  her  great  defeat  at 
Meloria  in  1284  at  the  hands  of  Genoa.     Genoa,  in  turn, 
after  almost  overcoming  Venice,  was  fina''"  defeated  by 
her  in  1378,  leaving  her  supreme.     Heru-.ns,  in  unholy 
alliance  with  the  Crusaders,  triumphed  over  Constanti- 
nople herself;  her  decrees  were  obeyed  in  many  an  older 
city  on  the  mainland,  in  Dalmatia,  the  Ionian  Islands,  and 
Crete;  as  the  fifteenth  century  drew  to  its  close  only  Rome 
and  Lorenzo's  Florence  could  at  all  match  her  in  fame, 
and  even,  they  had  not  her  stability,  her   security,  her 
reputation  for  greatness,  past  and  present,  greatness  solid 
and  splendid  and  certain  for  the  future.     "Contemplate, " 
says  Taine,  "the  enterprising  life  of  a  free  city 
like  this  Venice,  a  borough  of  fishmongers,  planted  on 
mud,  without  water,  without  stone,  without  wood,  which 
conquers  the  coasts  of  its  own  gulf,  Constantinople   ♦he 
Archipelago,  the  Peloponnesus,  and  Cyprus,  which  ■  .r 
presses  seven  rebellions  in  Zara  and  sixteen  rebellions  m 
Crete,  which  defeats  the  Dalmatians,  the  Byzantines,  the 
Sultans   of   Cairo,    and   the   kings   of   Hungary,    which 
launches  on  the  Bosphorus  flotillas  of  five  hundred  sail, 
which  arms   squadrons  of  two  hundred  galleys,   which 
keeps  afloat  at  one  time  three  thousand  vessels,  which 
annually,  with  four   fleets  of  galleys,  unites  Trebizond, 
Alexandria,  Tunis,  Tangiers.  Lisbon,  and  London,  which 


158 


Italian  Cities 


finally,  creating  manufactures,  an  architecture,  a  school  of 
painting,  and  an  original  society,  transforms  itself  into  a 
magnificent  jewel  of  art,  whilst  its  /essels  and  its  soldiers 
in  Crete  and  the  Morea  defend  Europe  against  the  last 
of  barbarian  invasions." 

Yet  power  and  pride  so  great  were  a  danger,  after  all, 
and  the  old  strength  of  brain  and  will  and  spirit  began  to 
be  sapped  in  the  sixteenth  century, — perhaps  even  earlier. 
The  Turkish  conquests  too,  the  fall  of  Constantinople 
and  the  presence  of  these  warlike  savages  from  the  Bos- 
phorus  to  the  Nile,  sorely  blocked  the  old  trade  routes  to 
the  East.  Before  the  fifteenth  century  was  done,  not  only 
had  a  Genoese  mariner  under  commission  from  Spain 
discovered  America,  but  Portugese  sailors  had  rounded 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  found  a  new  road  to  India 
that  dangerously  threatened  the  supremacy  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. Slowly  but  surely  as  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  wore  on,  the  primacy  of  Venice  in  the  eastern 
trade  gave  way  to  that  of  Portugal.  Her  beauty  and  her 
fame  remained,  but  her  power  and  wealth  left  her,  and  it 
was  only  a  shadow  of  the  old  Venice  that  yielded  up  its 
remnant  of  independent  life  to  Napoleon  in  1797- 

And  now  what  of  the  immortal  part  of  Venice?  Her 
empire  and  her  wealth  are  only  a  memory.  Her  beauty 
is  a  possession  that  can  only  be  taken  away  when  her 
palaces  crumble  into  the  lagoons,  and  her  paintings  so 
fade  and  perish  that  Bellini  and  Titian  become  empty 
names. 

Here,  right  at  the  outset  of  any  study  of  Venetian  art, 
we  need  to  guard  against  a  misconception.  If  we  look 
only  at  painting  and  at  the  Renaissance  we  are  apt  to  say 
— as  many  have  said — that  the  artistic  life  of  Venice  be- 


Venice 


159 


gan  later  than  at  Florence.     If,  on  the  other  hand,  we 
open  our  eyes  to  all  the  ways  in  which  the  sense  of  beauty 
in  form  and  color  shows  itself,  such  a  statement  becomes 
an  absurdity.     The  long  contact  between  Venice  and  Con- 
stantinople kept  this  one  Italian  city  in  touch  with  all  that 
were  left  of  Greek  traditions  of  workmanship,  and  with  a 
form  of  art  that  was  at  least  akin  to  painting,— mosaic. 
The  Venetians  had  in  their  own  sky  and  sea  a  training  in 
color.     So  through  the  eleventh,  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and 
fourteenth  centuries  arose  those  marvels  of  beauty— the 
Doge's  Palace  and  the  Church   of   St.   Mark— glowing 
with  color,  adorned  with  loving  care,  patterned  like  no 
other  buildings  in  Italy  an*    Europe.     The  lessons  for 
their  making  came  from  the  East  and  the  North;  they  are 
Byznntine  and  Gothic,  so  far  as  you  can  classify  them  at 
all,  but  they  were  given  a  stamp  by  their  builders  which 
makes  them  in  a  definite  sense  simply  Venetian.     Indeed 
they  are  monuments  of  a  genius  for  form  and  color  in 
building  to  which  it  is  not  easy  to  find  a  parallel  in  all  the 
rest  of  Italy. 

But  these  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Renaissance. 
The  impulse  of  new  life  that  was  transforming  the  intel- 
lectual and  artistic  life  of  Italy  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
reviving  the  forgotten  -enius  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and 
mfusing  life  into  dead  forms,  touched  the  city  of  the 
lagoons  at  first  scarcely  at  all.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  however,  and  with  the  opening  of 
the  fifteenth— the  century  that  was  to  see  so  great  an 
advancement  of  learning  and  art  in  Florence  under  the 
patronage  of  the  Medici— Venice  began  to  see  something 
interesting  in  the  newly  developed  art  of  painting.  Young 
artists  began  to  study  under  Tuscan  and  Umbrian  masters, 


i 


i6o 


Italian  Cities 


and  the  result  was  immediate  and  brilliant.     Here,  as  in 
architecture,  Venice  kept  her  own  unmistakable  character. 
These   early  Venetian   paintings   are  not  like  the   early 
work  of  the  Florentines  or  the  Sienese.     You  miss  the 
twisted  head,  the  slanting  eyes,  the  somber  colored  drapery 
on  a  gold  background,  the  stiffness  and  even  ugliness 
which  were  the  result  of  a  striving  for  a  purely  spiritual 
effect.     All  of  these  things  were  too  foreign  to  the  sunny, 
beauty-loving  spirit  of  Venice  to  be  tolerated  there.     The 
first  painters  preferred  to  take  their  inspiration  from  their 
own  mosaic  work  and  from  the  bright  colors  of  their  city, 
and  their  paintings,   if  they  were  stiff  and  crude,  with 
imperfect  drawing  and  perspective,  were  yet  bright  and 
pretty,  with  a  glittering,  doll-like  prettiness.     Here  was 
the  beginning  of  an  art  that  would  be  like  Venice  herself, 
—brilliant,  beautiful  in  form  and  color,  sunny,  delightful, 
and  not  very  spiritual — an  art  that  at  its  best,  when  un- 
spoiled, would  be  pure  joy  and  loveliness  incarnate,  and 
that  at  its  weakest  would  be  material,  glaring,  and  sensuous. 
There  are  five  great  painters  that  every  one  who  loves 
Venice  and  wants  to  know  more  of  her  should  try   to 
study,  for  among  them  they  interpret  for  us,  as  far  as 
painting  can  be  an  interpretation,  the  life  of  Venice  in  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.     These  are  Carpaccio, 
Giovanni  Bellini,  Giorgione,  Titian,  and  Tintoretto. 

Now  let  me  quote  a  remark  of  Ruskin's,  which  is 
worth  thinking  about.  "Now,  John  Bellini,"  he  says,' 
"was  born  in  1423,  and  Titian  in  1480.  John  Bellini  and 
his  brother  Gentile,  two  years  older  than  he,  close  the  line 
of  the  sacred  painters  of  Venice.  But  the  most  solemn 
spirit  of  religious  faith  animates  their  works  to  the  last. 

1  "Stones  of  Venice."  chapter  !. 


Venice 


i6i 


There  is  no  religion  in  any  work  of  Titian's:  there  is  not 
even  the  smallest  evidence  of  religious  temper  or  a  'm- 
pathies,  either  in  himself  or  in  those  for  whom  he  painted. 
His  larger  sacred  subjects  are  merely  themes  for  the  exhi- 
bition of  pictorial  rhetoric,  composition,  and  color 

Now,  this  is  not  merely  because  John  Bellini  was  a  relil 
gious  man  and  Titian  was  not.  Titian  and  Bellini  are 
each  true  representatives  of  the  school  of  painters  con- 
temporary with  them;  and  the  difference  in  their  artistic 
feeling  is  a  consequence  not  so  much  of  difference  in  their 
own  natural  characters  as  in  their  early  education.  Belhni 
was  brought  up  in  faith;  Titian  in  formalism.  Between 
the  years  of  their  births  the  vital  religion  of  Venice  had 
expired. ' ' 

This  is  surely  worth  looking  into.     You  stroll  into  the 
room  of  the  academy  that  contains  Carpaccio's  pictured 
story  of  St.  Ursula      Here  it  is  all  told  for  you.     In  an 
open,  airy  room  a  Christian  king  is  receiving  a  group  of 
heathen  British  ambassadors  who  have  come  to  ask  the 
hand   of  the   princess  Ursula   for  their   prince,  Conon. 
The  embassy  being  dismissed,  the  king  and  the  princess  are 
shown  gravely  discussing  the  situation,  Ursula  evidently 
counting  off  the  pros  and  cons  on  her  fingers,  but  finally 
the  suit  is  granted  on  two  conditions:  the  prince  must 
become  a  Christian,  and  Ursula  must  be  permitted  to  make 
an  extend      nilgrimage,  attended  by  eleven  thousand  vir- 
gins.    The  prince  joyfully  consents,  and  together  the  two 
set  forth  amid  a  glorious  pageant  of  galleys,  with  banners 
and  stately  groups  of  lords  and  ladies  backed  by  Venetian 
palaces.     But  alas,  in  their  journey  they  come  to  Cologne, 
to  visit  the  shrine  of  the  Three  Kings  of  the  East,  and 
find  the  city  besieged  by  the  Huns.     They  are  warned  of 


i6i 


Italian  Cities 


the  danger,  but  they  insist  on  landing.  In  vain  does  an 
angel  visit  Ursula  is  she  sleeps  and  tell  her  of  her 
approaching  martyrdom.  All  untroubled,  she  rests  in 
her  quiet  little  room,  her  crown  neatly  laid  on  a  cushion 
by  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  slippers  disposed  at  the  bed- 
side, and  her  little  dog  slumbering  near  by  oblivious  of  the 
angelic  visitor.  On  the  morrow  they  land  and  are  cruelly 
shot  to  death  by  the  arrows  of  the  Huns.  And  all  through 
you  are  in  a  most  delightful  world  of  sunlight  and  color, 
and  fair  ladies  and  gallant  gentlemen,  and  over  all  a  peace 
and  joy  so  innocent,  so  free  from  sin  and  care,  that  even 
the  murderous  Huns  in  the  last  picture  seem  to  do  their 
deed  right  courteously,  and  their  victims  to  receive  the 
arrows  with  cheerful  faces  and  joyous  hearts.  So  with 
the  same  painter's  noble  'St.  George  and  the  Dragon," 
in  S.  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni,  w  ere  you  are  quite  divided 
in  your  good  will  between  the  fair  knight  and  the  gorgeous 
monster  who  so  gaily  prances  there.  The  grewsome  frag- 
ments of  the  dragon's  victims  do  not  prejudice  you; 
you  are  quite  sure  so  admirable  a  beast  must  be  without 
real  guiie,  and  so  fair  a  world  could  scarcely,  you  think, 
admit  of  anything  very  serious  in  the  way  of  evil. 

Now  walk  into  the  church,  let  us  say,  of  S.  Zaccaria 
and  stand  before  a  lovely  Madonna  by  John  Bellini.  Here 
is  not  indeed  the  joyous  love  of  life  and  color  that  Car- 
j)accio  gives  you.  It  is  more  earnest  and  stately,  as  befits 
the  subject,  and  perhaps  more  spiritual,  but  with  the 
spirituality  and  the  innocence  there  is  no  suggestion  of  a 
struggle  against  evil,  no  scorn  of  the  flesh,  no  shrinking 
from  earthly  beauty.  The  asceticism  and  consciousness 
of  the  terrible  power  o*"  the  Evil  One  that  you  saw  con- 
stantly in  the  minds  of  the  Florentines  is  quite  lacking. 


•F^^' 


Venice 


163 


Flere  is  a  lovely  mother  with  her  baby,  and  at  her  feet 
sits  a  oeautiful  little  angel,  serious,  but  without  any  sign 
that   the  sin  and  sorrow  of  the  world  are  weighing  un 
her,  meditatively  holding  a  stringed  instrument,  as  if  she 
would  play  some  soft  little  air  on  it.     The  four  saints— 
St.  Lucy,  St.  Tatherine,  St   Peter,  and  St.  Jerome— stand 
in    thoughtful    preoccupation,    dignified,    graceful,    and 
stately,  with  not  an  unworthy  line  in  faces  or  forms,  not 
a  line  that  would  show  st.uggle  or  self-abasement.     A 
religion  is  here,  based,  not  on  man's  consciousness  of  sin, 
not  on  an  ascetic  hatred  of  the  world  or  the  flesh,  but  on 
man's  noble  striving  after  the  divine,  on  a  love  for  that 
lofty  earthly  grace  which  is  the  mirror  and  type  of  the 
pure  soul.     Carpaccio  and  Bellini,  unlike  as  they  are  in 
temperament  and  method,  are  alike  the  interpreters  of  a 
civilization  sunny  and  peaceful,  loving  law  and  order  and 
quiet,  revering  that  which  is  noble  and  true,  glr.dly  bowing 
to  God's  Church,  delighting  in  the  beauty  and  the  grace 
and  the  joyousness  of  God's  world  md  His  creatures. 

And  now  comes  Giorgione,  lovmg  beauty  with  even 
greater  fervor,  forgetting  perhaps  a  little  more  easily  the 
deeper  or  the  sadder  or  the  more  spiritual  side  of  life. 
Ard  after  him  Titian,  faultless  in  drawing,  a  master  in 
rich  harmonious  color,  majestic  in  conception,  triumphant 
in  execution,  but,  except  in  a  very  few  cases,  without  a 
hint  of  that  subtle  spirit  which  was  all  in  all  to  a  Floren- 
tine and  which  gave  so  pure  a  grace  to  Carpaccio  and 
Bellini,  that  hint  of  a  beauty  beyond  form  and  color,  of  a 
joy  not  wholly  of  earth,  of  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea 
or  land,  of  that  peace  of  God  which  the  world  cannot  give 
and  which  passeth  all  understanding.  Nothing  in  Renais- 
sance art  is  more  e  hically  instructive  than  the  contrast 


164 


Italian  Cities 


between,  let  us  say,  Filippino  Lippi's  "Vision  of  St. 
Bernard"  or  Fra  Angelico's  "Coronation  of  the  Virgin," 
and  Titian's  "Assumption,"  or  much  more,  Paolo  Vero- 
nese's "Venice  Enthroned."  One  feels  that  the  devo- 
tional  side  of  painting  was  really  the  very  breath  of  life 
to  the  Florentines,  or  if  the  generalization  should  be  made 
broader,  that  the  thing  the  Florentines  chiefly  cared  about 
was  the  serious,  human  message  that  was  to  be  conveyed. 
The  message,  the  spiritual  and  ethical  side  of  their  art 
was  not  everything  to  them,  or  that  art  never  would  have 
been  as  great  as  it  was.  But  it  was  so  much  to  them  that 
color  and  beauty  were  quite  subordinated.  Of  all  the 
Florentines  Andrea  del  Sarto  was  the  only  great  colorist. 
Whether  one  says,  then,  that  their  greatness  as  artists  was 
achieved  in  spite  of  their  constant  preoccupation  with  their 
religious  message,  or  whether  it  is  better  to  say  that  this 
grave,  ethical  tone,  sometimes  earth-despising  and  some- 
times realistic,  but  always  quiet  and  in  a  sense  prayerful, 
is  the  distinctive  charm  of  their  work,  the  result  is  the 
same.  No  matter  how  we  state  it,  this  attention  to  con- 
tent rather  than  to  form  and  color  constitutes  much  of  the 
human  interest  of  the  Tuscan  painters.  One  grows  to 
love  it  and  to  look  for  it,  and  to  come  before  the  "As- 
sumption" or  the  frescoes  of  the  Ducal  Palace  means  at 
first  to  the  lover  of  Giotto  and  Botticelli  a  distinct  shock. 
They  seem  material,  voluptuous,  beside  the  quiet,  lov- 
able men  and  women  and  angels  of  the  Uffizi.  Yet  one 
should  not  class  the  "Assumption"  with  Veronese's  fres- 
coes. Indeed,  one  cannot  long  do  Titian  real  injustice,  or 
refuse  to  him  the  homage  due  to  one  of  the  greatest  paint- 
ers who  ever  lived.  If  he  has  not  the  spirituality,  the 
subtle  fascination  of  Botticelli,  there  is  in  him  an  over- 


■  St. 
fin," 
/^ero- 
levo- 
F  life 
■nade 
ibout 
;yed. 
r  art 
have 
that 
1  the 
)rist. 
;  was 
their 
this 
)me- 
rful, 
the 
con- 
Fthe 
s  to 
'As- 
is  at 
ock. 
lov- 
one 
Fres- 
;,  or 
lint- 
the 
iver- 


ANGEL 

Detail  Iroin  Bellini's  Ma  lonna  and  Saints,  in  the  Church  of  S.  Zaccaria.  Venice 


Venice 


.65 


powering  sense  of  mastery,  of  splendor,  of  rich  beauty 
that  none  of  the  Florentines  could  claim  for  a  moment. 
The  "Assumption"  itself  has  an  impressiveness,  a  lofty 
beauty  that  never  can  be  forgotten.     And  even  if  we 
miss  in  him  any  deep  sense  of  the  divine  in  life  one  can 
scarcely  say  that  the  sinse  of  idealism  is  quite  gone;  his 
majestic  St.  Christopher,  and  the  exquisite  figure  of  the 
Virgin  in  the  "Presentation"  would  alone  make  us  hesi- 
tate  to  say  anything  so  sweeping.     But  in  Tintoretto, 
marvelous  painter  as  he  was,  and  in  Paolo  Veronese,  real- 
ism  has  definitely  supplanted  idealism;  boldness  of  concep. 
tion,  skill  in  execution,  glorious  mastery  of  color,  have 
taken  the  place  once  for  aH  of  the  simplicity,  the  moral 
health,  the  heavenly  striving  of  the  eariier  masters.' 

From  the  simplicity,  the  faith  in  God,  the  joy  in  hu- 
manity,  of  Carpaccio  and  Bellini,  to  the  gorgeous  draperies, 
the  luxury,  the  pride  of  wealth,  the  splendid  woridliness 
of  Paolo  Veronese,  such  was  the  deeply  significant  move- 
ment  of  Venetian  art  during  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries.  And  with  this  dying  out  of  the  spiritual  in  art, 
there  were  flitting  away  from  Venice  the  sources  of  her 
wealth  and  power.  As  the  line  of  great  painters  ended  and 
gave  place  to  workmen  to  whom  art  was  good  drawing,  rich 
and  splendid  coloring,  effective  composition,  faultless' per- 
spective,  and  these  alone,  the  heart  of  Venice  was  growing 
cold,  her  brain  and  will  were  losing  their  force,  and  the 
sea  on  which  she  had  earned  her  supremacy  was  ceasing 

Venice  i^lf  U^n.^'^^.'^^alllL^/s^jio^.S  'S  ^  '^P^  vi.i.in, 

di  Schiavoni,  where  the  Carpaccios  are^  ThMiniest  ch"  ^h'^hif '  °*  ^-  ^*°',^° 
a  ven-  small  London  drawing-rootn-but  with7^c?ufesM  I  An^'^h"  *^*'  ''^* 
see  Carpaccio  give  him  my^love.  and  whenever  vousiL  RHmnT*"^"*  h^'  ''°'' 
adoration,  for  none  is  like  him-John  that^rfor  his  hmth^M  ^n^**  '"'°  TX 
"Memorials  of  Edward  Burne-Jones  '  Vo  li  d  ^t  tnhn  R„M"''^.''i^P^l'- 
Gf^nt  c  w=)=  not  at  ■-,>]  hi^  r-:„i'  ,hZ,  .i  1  ,'"  j'^V^-'^'  J°""  "•^'im!  s  brother 
and  sincerity  ^"*"  """"'*''  '"=  ''="^  ">«  ^^^^  charm  of  simplicity 


1 66 


Italian  Cities 


to  be  the  chief  highway  of  the  East.  The  spirit  of  the 
great  city  was  dying  with  her  faith  as  the  scepter  passed 
awa ,  from  her.  The  doge  could  look  sadly  out  from  the 
balcony  of  the  great  council  hall,  and  no  more  see  the 
lagoon  splendid  with  galleys  bearing  the  wealth  of  the  East 
to  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal.  And  the  great 
jeweled  Church  looked  down  on  a  city  whose  faith  and 
whose  strength  were  gone,  whose  splendid  beauty  still 
unfaded  hid  the  speedy  coming  of  death. 

"Not  in  the  wantonness  of  wealth,  not  in  vain  ministry 
to  the  desire  of  the  eyes  or  the  pride  of  life,  were  those 
marbles  hewn  into  transparent  strength,  and  those  arches 
arrayed  in  the  colors  of  the  iris.  There  is  a  message  writ- 
ten in  the  dyes  of  them  that  once  was  written  in  blood; 
and  a  sound  in  the  echoes  of  their  vaults  that  one 
day  shall  fill  the  vault  of  heaven,  'He  shall  return 
to  do  judgment  and  justice.'  The  strength  of  Venice 
was  given  iicr  so  long  as  she  remembered  this;  her 
destruction  found  her  when  she  had  forgotten  this;  and 
it   found  her   irrevocably   because  she  forgot  it  without 

excuse The  sins  of  Venice,  whether  in  her  palace 

or  in  her  piazza,  were  done  with  the  Bible  at  her  right 
hand.  The  walls  on  which  its  testimony  was  written 
were  separated  but  by  a  few  inches  of  marble  from  those 
which  guarded  the  secrets  of  her  councils  or  confined  the 
victims  of  her  policy.  And  when,  in  her  last  hours,  she 
threw  off  all  shame  and  all  restraint,  and  the  great 
square  of  the  city  became  filled  with  the  madness  of 
the  whole  earth,  be  it  remembered  how  much  her  sin 
was  greater  because  it  was  done  in  the  face  of  the 
House  of  God,  burning  with  the  letters  of  his  Law. 
Mountebank  and  masquer  laughed  tiieii  laugh  and   went 


Venice 


167 


their  way;  and  a  silence  has  followed  them  not  unfore- 
tokl;  for  amidst  tl  em  all,  through  century  after  century 
of  gathering  vanity  md  festering  guilt,  that  white  dome  of 
St.  Mark's  has  uttt.ed  in  the  dead  ear  of  Venice,  'Know 
thou,  that  for  all  these  things  God  will  bring  thee  into 
judgment.'  "  ' 

It  is  near  the  close  of  a  lovely  afternoon  in  June.     You 
have  been  in  the  great  church  of  the  Frari,  steeping  your- 
self in  the  loveliness  of  Bellini's  altar-piece  and  Titian's 
wonderful  "Madonna  of  the  Pesaro  Family."     As  the 
light   began  to  fail  you,   you  left   the  dim  church  and 
walked  meditatively  down  towards  the  Grand  Canal.     You 
are  in  the  mood  for  an  aimless  ramble,  and  you  are  just 
tired  enough  to  welcome  the  cushioned  seat  of  a  gondola. 
Just  the  gondolier  you  want  is  waiting  for  you  at  the 
traghetto,^  ferocious  of  aspect,  gayly  attired  in  white,  and 
adorned  with  flowing  blue  sash  and  tie,  altogether  a  fit 
man  for  your  mood,  and  an  oarsman,  as  you  know  well, 
of  tireless  strength  and  fine  instinct  for  discoveries.     You 
give  him  the  easy  instruction  to  go  where  he  pleases,  and 
off  you  glide  with  that  exquisite  swimming  motion  that 
nothing  but  the  canoe  can  equal  and  even  the  canoe  can- 
not surpass,  across  the  wide  reach  of  the  Grand  Canal  and 
into  one  of  the  exquisite  little  canals  that  are  among  the 
chief  beauties  of  Venice.     Past  dark  doors,   past   ■:  tie 
boats  moored  idly,  past  garden  walls  overhung  by  vines 
and  graceful  branches  you  swing  along  with  a  gentle  rock 
and  a  soft  swish,  until  you  are  conscious  of  a  familiar 
landmark  ahead.     It  is  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.     In  a  moment 

'  "Stones  of  Venice, "  il.,  chapter  IV. 
.     2  .An  ancient  and  famous  terra  in  Venice.    To  the  casual  traveler  the  word 
simply  means  a  gondola  landing,  but  the  niore  accurate  meaoine  mav  "»  f^und 


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Italian  Cities 


you  pass  the  rear  of  St.  Mark's  and  of  the  Ducal  Palace, 
see  the  Bridge  poised  for  a  second  above  you  as  you  glide 
darkly  along  between  palace  and  prison,  and  then  in  a 
stroke  you  are  out  on  the  lagoon.  You  turn  just  for  a 
moment  to  glance  back  on  that  marvelous  work  of  old 
Venice,  to  delight  once  more  in  the  dainty  arcades,  the 
stately  columns  by  the  Mole,  and — as  you  pass  the  line  of 
the  Piazzetta — the  corner  that  you  can  see  of  the  great 
church;  you  catch  from  your  gondola  a  flash  of  innumer- 
able wings  as  a  cloud  of  pigeons  sweeps  down  and  out  of 
sight  into  the  Piazza,  and  then  with  a  long  look  down  the 
magnificent  reach  of  the  Grand  Canal,  you  settle  back 
with  a  sigh  at  the  exceeding  goodness  of  it  all. 

Your  gondolier  is  evidently  aiming  for  the  Giudecca. 
With  easy  strokes  he  carries  you  past  the  Custom  House, 
past  Santa  Maria  della  Salute,  and  across  the  Canal  of 
the  Giudecca  toward  the  Redentore.  Then  a  few  little 
turns  and  you  go  more  slowly  along  by  the  abodes  of  sail- 
ors and  fishermen.  It  is  a  fairly  wide  canal  lined  with 
^oats  of  all  kinds.  The  beams  of  the  low  sun  glance 
from  behind  you  and  light  with  level  rays  the  gaunt  masts 
and  tangled  cordage,  the  yellow  sails,  the  black  hulls,  the 
bright  sun-burned  faces,  and  as  you  turn  in  delight  and 
look  back  it  seems  to  you  that  nowhere  else  in  the  world 
could  you  get  such  entrancing  effects  of  light  and  shade 
and  rich  color.  It  is  purely  Venetian.  Yet  no  palaces 
are  here,  and  few  of  these  bronzed  men  and  women  could 
tell  you  much  of  Dandolo  or  Marino  Faliero,  of  Shylock 
or  Othello,  even  though  many  of  them  are  the  descendants 
of  warriors  who  fought  the  Genoese  at  Chioggia  and 
helped  to  storm  Constantinople.  You  pass  barges  full  of 
busy  workers,    and  see  huge  baskets  half   sunk  in  the 


MOLli  AND  i'lAZKTTA.  VENICK 


mV, 


Venice 


169 


water.     You  point  in  astonishment  to  a  little  green  crab 
painfully  climbing  the  side  of  a  basket  and  your  good- 
natured  pilot  swings  you  in  for  a  moment  beside  one  of 
the  boats.     The  floor  of  it  is  a  foot  deep  with  crawling 
green  crabs,  and  you  are  informed  that  they  make  good 
eating.     Your  quite   unreasonable   gesture   of  horror  is 
taken  in  good  part.     They  doubtless  realize  something  of 
foreign  prejudices;  and  you  somewhat  hastily  move  away 
as  they  try  to  contribute  to  your  education  in  Venetian 
customs  by  offering  you  a  toothsome,   squirming   little 
morsel.     But  if  you  hesitate  to  touch  the  crab  you  have 
no  ill  will  toward  the  smiling  fisherman  or  his  company. 
Indeed,  so  unaffectedly  happy  are  they  all  that  you  catch 
the  infection  and  beam  radiantly  at  the  whole  canal  with 
its  baskets  and  barges  and  picturesque  sounds  and  sights 
and    its   rich    evening  colors.     All    is  good    and   most 
beautiful. 

With  a  quieter,  longer  stroke,  your  gondola  glides  out 
upon  the  lagoon  again,  this  time  on  the  side  away  from 
the  city.     The  sun  is  near  setting.     Out  towards  the  Lido 
the  black  form  of  a  gondola  is  silhouetted  in  the  clear  air 
against  the  reflected  glow  of  the  sunset.     No  other  life  is 
visible,   and   you   look   away  out   over  the   quiet  water 
towards  the  Adriatic,  your  heart  full  of  the  loveliness  in 
which— taken  all  in  all— Venice  and  her  lagoons  reign 
supreme.     Your  gondolier  knows  it,  too,  familiar  as  it  is 
to  him,  and  you  hear  with  quick  sympathy  his  murmur 
' '  Molta  bella ! "— "  most  beautiful  1 "     Here  again  the  ages 
fade  away.     The  terrors  of  war,  the  burdens  of  conquest 
and  empire,  the  generations  of  pride  and  glory,  of  stern 
tyranny   balanced   by  greatness   and   stability,   the   long 
decay,  the  bitterness  of  Napoleon's   robberies  and  the 


lyo 


Italian  Cities 


surrender  to  Austria,  the  three-score  years  and  ten  of 
Austrian  rule,  and  then  the  glad  triumph  of  a  better  free- 
dom than  the  old — all  these  pass  before  you  in  a  moment's 
vision.  And  over  and  above  all  that  is  selfish  and  cruel 
in  the  whole  wonderful  story  there  sinks  into  you  now  as 
the  day  wanes  the  marvel  of  this  jeweled  city,  built  on 
marshy  islets,  lifted  from  these  muddy  lagoons,  raised  in 
strength  and  beauty  by  "iron  hands  and  patient  hearts" 
to  be  one  of  the  famous  spots  of  the  whole  earth.  Your 
last  words  of  it  cannot  be  Ruskin's  stern  words  of  judg- 
ment. Few  cities  have  brought  forth  for  our  encourage- 
ment so  many  generations  of  stout-hearted  citizens.  Few 
cities  have  done  their  part  in  the  world's  work  so  man- 
fully. Only  two  at  most  have  left  the  world  so  brilliant 
a  flowering  of  beauty.  So  for  good  work  and  for  beauty, 
for  palaces  and  for  fisher's  huts,  for  St.  Mark's  and  for 
the  painters,  for  sun  and  color  and  swift  gondola,  for  all 
that  is  Venice,  let  the  world  ever  give  thanks. 


CHAPTER   X 

MILAN 

From  a  lovely  nook  on  a  hillside  by  beautiful  Lake 
Como  you  are  looking  away  off  towards  Milan  and  the 
south.  You  will  soon  be  in  Piedmont,  and  then  you  are 
to  turn  north  to  Switzerland  and  say  farewell  to  Italy. 
Here  ';ere  the  air  is  fresh  and  where  the  green  leaves 
and  the  lake  give  you  only  a  lovely  present  world,  nothing 
to  study,  you  look  back  reflectively.  It  seems  a  long  time 
since  you  landed  in  Naples  and  began  these  Italian  wan- 
derings. Days,  weeks,  months  have  been  unlike  the  same 
periods  of  time  at  home;  they  have  held  so  much  for  you 
that  perspective  has  been  destroyed,  and  the  multi- 
plicity of  sights  and  studies  has  tended  to  blind  you  some- 
what to  the  total.  The  trees  have  hid  the  forest.  There 
have  been  times  when  the  glory  of  Venice  has  obscured 
the  more  spiritual  beauty  of  Florence;  when  the  dread 
visions  of  Dante  overshadowed  the  merry  jests  and 
romances  of  Boccaccio;  when  the  fascination  of  the  hill- 
towns  and  the  beauty  of  unexpected  byways  swept  away 
the  somber  memory  of  narrow,  hot  stone  streets  and  for- 
bidding palace  walls;  when  it  seemed  hard  to  draw  back 
and  see  all  of  them  together  as  Italy— all  Italy— Rome, 
Lombardy,  Venice,  Naples,  and  all  the  varied  moods  of  a 
racial  genius  which  in  succeeding  ages  could  bring  forth 
Caesar  and  Fra  Angelico.  Virgil  and  Pope  Juiius,  Hilde- 
brand  and  Fra  Lippo. 


lya 


Italian  Cities 


Yet  this  effort  you  ^nust  make.  This  handsome, 
ruddy,  unkempt  youth  who  is  climbing  the  road  near 
you  might  have  served  in  the  legions  of  Marius.  That 
monk  that  you  were  talking  to  this  morning  might  have 
been  a  Gregory  the  Great,  a  Fra  Bartolommeo,  a  com- 
panion jf  Savonarola.  The  restless,  vigorous  old  man 
whom  you  met  the  other  day  in  the  Ambrosian  Library 
in  Milan  might  be  Petrarch  incarnate  once  more,  and  his 
rubicund,  bright-eyed  companion  might  be  Boccaccio. 
All  alike  were  Italians  and  fellow-countrymen,  all  alike 
illustrate  the  amazing  genius  of  a  people  so  many-siHed 
in  their  achievements  that  unless  we  bethink  ourselves 
we  make  the  stories  of  Rome,  of  the  Papacy,  of  the 
Renaissance,  and  of  the  later  days  of  Mazzini  and  Cavour 
as  if  they  were  accounts  of  different  peoples.  Yet  beyond 
the  infusion  of  Lombard  and  Norman  and  Ostrogothic 
blood — perhaps  some  Visigothic  and  Prankish  too — the 
Italian  race  is  now  what  it  was  two  thousand  years  ago, 
and  this  freshening  of  the  stock  by  other  races  has  cer- 
tainly not  changed  its  identity.  The  people  led  by  Cavour 
and  Garibaldi  to  liberty  and  union  were  the  people  who 
saw  the  domes  of  St.  Peter's  and  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore 
rise  at  the  bidding  of  Michelangelo  and  Brunelleschi,  who 
sprang  at  one  another's  throats  in  the  conflicts  of  Guelfs 
and  Ghibellines,  who  fought  the  Germans  under  Germani- 
cus,  the  Britons  under  Agricola,  and  the  Gauls  under 
Caesar,  who  applauded  the  festivals  of  blood  in  the  Circus 
Maximus,  and  who  humbled  the  pride  of  Carthage. 
Ancestors  of  Venetians,  Pisans,  Florentines,  and  Pied- 
montese  served  in  the  galleys  of  Pompey  and  the  legions 
of  Trajan.  And  one  must  see  Italy  as  Italy — Rome, 
Florence,  Lombardy,  if  you  like,  but  over  all  and  through 


Milan 


173 


all  one  Italian  race  and  genius — if  one  would  see  each  city, 
each  age,  each  achievement,  in  its  true  setting. 

It  is  perhaps  easiest  to  do  this  in  Rome.  There  one 
may  see  the  Colosseum  from  a  trolley-car  that  passes 
along  the  Via  Cavour,  and  then  in  a  moment  ascend  a 
tunneled  slope  beneath  a  palace  of  the  Borgias  to  see  in 
the  Church  of  S.  Pietro  in  Vincoli  the  "Moses"  of 
Michelangelo.  Gradually,  but  quite  inevitably,  one  is 
forced  to  the  conviction  that  the  city  of  the  Emperors,  of 
the  Popes,  of  the  Renaissance,  and  of  the  Liberation  is 
really  the  same  city  moved  in  different  ages  by  different 
motives;  that  a  municipal  proclamation  signed  by  Colonna 
— descendant  of  Petrarch's  friends — should  be  expected, 
not  marvelled  at;  and  that  to  erect  in  Rome  of  all  places 
a  dividing  wall  between  ancient,  medieval,  and  modem 
history  is  the  surest  of  ways  in  which  to  falsify  the  truth 
and  make  the  living  past  a  dead  jumble  of  names.  What 
is  true  of  Rome  is  true  of  all  Italy.  It  is  natural  that  we 
should  make  a  halo  about  those  ages  and  cities  that  have 
brought  forth  great  men  and  heroic  deeds.  And  it  is 
natural  that  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  an  epoch  or 
a  state  should  blind  us  to  the  essential  unity  of  a  great 
race's  development.  But  two  thousand  years  ago  Tus- 
cans, Venetians,  and  Latins  were  all  Romans;  now  they 
are  all  Italians.  The  contemporaries  of  Cicero  saw  no 
more  glor}'  about  his  head  than  we  see  about  the  head  of 
Mazzini.  The  mob  that  cheered  Mark  Antony  was  doubt- 
less very  like  a  mob  that  might  gather  in  the  streets  of 
modern  Rome. 

One  might  almost  imagine  sometimes  that  there  might 
be  some  who  would  reverently  take  the  Forum,  the  Colos- 
seum, and  the  Temple  of  Vesta  and  place  them  in  a 


174 


Italian  Cities 


museum,  mounted  and  labelled,  where  the  dust  and  roar 
of  vulgar  traffic  would  not  defile  or  profane  them.  But 
the  columns  that  stood  unmoved  amid  the  babel  and  the 
tumults  of  ancient  Rome  cannot  be  greatly  disturbed  by 
the  noise  of  to-day.  Why  should  the  ancient  be  sacred 
and  the  modem  defiling?  It  is  all  Rome.  Here  in  a  villa 
you  may  step  from  reliefs  carved  in  A.D,  51  or  52  to 
celebrate  victories  in  Britain,  to  Canova's  statue  of  Pauline 
Borghese,  sister  of  Napoleon  I.,  and  then  you  may  go 
upstairs  to  see  masterpieces  of  Titian,  Correggio,  and 
Andrei  del  Sarto.  In  this  city,  if  anywhere  in  Italy,  you 
may  expect  to  see  monuments  of  the  first  century  and  the 
nineteenth,  of  Venice,  Florence,  or  Parma.  With  all  her 
intense  individuality  Rome  is  not  and  never  was  tied  to 
one  bit  of  ground  or  to  one  age,  and  sooner  or  later  she 
will  teach  every  earnest  student  the  lesson  that  Italy's 
history  is  not  to  be  cut  ruthlessly  into  three  or  four  parts. 
It  is  less  easy  to  keep  this  large  horizon  in  your  mind's 
eye  in  Florence  or  Venice.  But  the  lesson  has  been 
brought  back  almost  with  a  shock  in  the  great  Lombard 
city  of  Milan. 

It  is  not  long  since  you  crossed  the  long  bridge  from 
Venice  to  the  mainland,  left  the  lagoons  behind  you,  and 
headed  for  Lombardy,  You  reached  Milan  early  enough 
to  take  a  stroll  through  the  streets  and  to  get  a  first  look 
at  the  Cathedral,  but  your  first  really  accurate  impressions 
were  not  formed  until  the  next  morning.  Even  before 
your  arrival  you  had  formed  the  stern  resolve  to  climb  the 
tower,  untaught  by  experiences  of  the  Leaning  Tower, 
the  Campanile  of  Giotto,  and  the  monuments  at  Bunker 
Hill  and  Washington.  But  all  such  determinations  dis- 
appeared for  the  time  as  you  walked  about  the  huge 


Hi 


Milan 


ns 


church  and  entered  it.  It  is  not  that  it  is  more  beautiful 
than  other  churches.  You  were  not  lost  in  a  delight  that 
was  keen  and  personal  as  at  Siena  or  before  St.  Mark's. 
You  were  not  braced  and  chastened  and  inspired  as  by 
Cologne  or  by  one  of  the  great  Norman  churches  of  Eng- 
land. But  you  were  lost  in  a  marvel,  in  a  bewilderment 
that  quite  overwhelmed  you,  as  you  gazed  at  the  dazzling 
pile  of  white  marble,  swarming  with  its  thousands  of 
statues,  carrying  your  eye  up  to  pinnacle  after  pinnacle, 
until  it  reached  the  tiny  tower  overtopping  all.  And  thi 
marvel  continued  when  you  entered.  Here  was  a  foresi 
of  immense  columns,  not  bearing  a  heavy  ro  f  upon  their 
broad  tops,  but  soaring  up  with  a  divine  airiness  that 
seemed  rather  to  lift  the  whole  edifice  lightly  up  towards 
heaven.  In  one  long  sweep  each  pillar  carried  your  eye 
from  floor  to  roof,  and  the  roof  itself  was  cunningly  carved 
in  tl  e  semblance  of  foliage,  so  that  the  great  church 
became  one  tremendous  stone  forest,  gray  and  silent,  as 
if  the  German  builders  had  taken  the  beloved  woods  of 
their  home  land  and  bidden  them  stand  there  petrified, 
majestic  and  eternal,  to  the  giory  of  God.  Perhaps  you 
would  tire  of  it  soon.  Perhaps  the  mixed,  ornate,  not 
quite  genuine  architecture  of  it  might  trouble  you  in  time. 
But  for  the  present  it  was  all  wonderful  and  glorious  to 
you,  and  you  bowed  before  it  in  amazement  and  rever- 
ence. 

Then  you  bethought  you  of  the  dome  and  tower. 
You  climbed  to  the  roof  and  stood  delighted  by  the  flying 
buttresses,  in  the  midst  of  the  myriad  statues.'  This 
much  was  surely  worth  while.     But  then  you  toiled  on 


'  There  are  over  two  thousand  statues  and  ninety-eight  turrets,  all  of 
marble.    The  tower  is  three  hundred  and  sixty  (eet  above  the  pavement. 


176 


Italian  Cities 


higher,  until  at  last  with  numb  muscles  and  disgusted 
spirit  you  stood  on  the  little  top  platform.  Away  below 
you  was  the  roof.  Farther  below  walked  tiny  men  by 
toy  carriages  and  horses.  In  the  distance  was  a  faint  blue 
line  behind  which  you  knew  rose  the  Alps.  But  after  all, 
it  was  just  like  a  map  done  in  relief.  All  perspective  was 
gone,  all  detail  loat  in  the  distance,  and  when  you  began 
to  descend  your  thoughts  regarding  ascent  and  view  were 
not  those  of  unmingled  self-congratulation. 

Your  remaining  strength  you  spent  that  morning  in  an 
aimless  walk  through  busy  streets.  What  a  far  cry  from 
this  to  Naples,  even  from  this  to  Florence !  In  Milan  you 
were  no  longer  in  quaint  old  half-medieval  Italy,  but  in  a 
modem  city,  the  most  modern  that  you  had  seen  since  you 
left  the  shores  of  America.  The  streets  might  have  been 
German,  English,  even  American.  The  common,  familiar 
characteristics  stamped  by  modern  commercial  and  indus- 
trial life  on  a}\  that  it  can  reach  were  here  in  truth,  and  it 
was  hard  to  realize  that  you  were  within  the  wall  .  the 
great  Lombard  city  that  defied  Barbarossa,  the  city  ot  Gian 
Galeazzo  Visconti  and  Ludovico  Sforza.  You  wondered, 
half-regretfully,  whether  all  Italy  would  one  day  be  assim- 
ilated to  this  new  busy  industrial  life,  whether  the  subtle 
old  flavor  of  days  departed  would  cease  to  linger  over  the 
walls  and  pavements  and  crooked  ways  ot  Perugia  and 
Assisi  and  Fiesole,  perchance  even  of  Naples  and  Amalfi. 

Once  upon  a  time  the  burghers  of  Milan  were  mightily 
stirred  by  dread  tidings — tidings  that  told  of  Barbarossa 
himself  coming  with  all  his  mailed  host  of  German  knights 
and  mer  .t-arms  to  declare  his  rule  over  Lombardy  and 
all  Itrjy.  It  was  the  second  visit  of  the  great  emperor. 
His  first,  four  years  before,  had  witnessed  his  coronation 


Milan 


177 


by  the  Englisli  pope,  A.irian  IV.,  but  it  had  been  closed 
hurriedly,  and  not  wholly  triumphantly,  by  the  combined 
pressure  of  the  Roman  fever  and  the  tumultuous  Roman 
populace.  Since  then  he  had  been  too  busily  occupied  in 
the  pacification  of  Germany  to  renew  his  etTorts— so  im- 
portant to  the  imperial  dignity— to  thoroughly  secure  the 
subjugation  of  Italy.  Now,  however,  all  was  well  in  the 
north.  "There  was  such  unwonted  peace  there  that  men 
seemed  changed,  the  land  a  different  one,  the  verj'  heaven 
had  become  milder  and  softer."  At  the  great  diet  of 
Besanfon,  says  the  good  chronicler  Ragewin,  "all  the 
earth  was  filled  with  admiration  for  the  clemency  and 
justice  of  the  emperor,  and  moved  both  by  love  and  fear 
ail  strove  to  overwhelm  him  with  novel  praises  and  new 
honors."  So  with  a  mind  at  ease  and  a  stout  heart 
Frederick  in  this  summer  of  1 1 58  crossed  the  Alps  and 
demanded  the  homage  of  the  Lombards. 

Fome  of  the  cities  yielded  willingly  enough,  notably 
Pavia,  Lodi,  Como,  and  Cremona.  If  there  was  much 
jealousy  of  the  Germans  as  foreigners  there  was  also  a 
strong  traditional  sentiment  of  loyalty  to  the  Roman  em- 
peror," no  matter  what  his  blood,  and  this  latter  feeling 
justified  and  strengthened  in  many  cases  a  conviction  that 
the  emperor  was  bound  to  win,  and  that  to  those  that  sup- 
ported him  would  be  honor  and  much  profit.  But  some 
held  back,  chief  among  them  our  stately  Milan,  and  against 
this  greatest  city  of  all  Lombardy  Frederick  marched  with 
all  his  legions,  a  hundred  thousand  armed  men  "vel  am- 
pliits."  Whoso  looked  upon  this  mighty  array,  opines  the 
Gerr'in  chronicler,  might  at  last  clearly  understand  the 

'  See  Bryce's  brilliant  essay  on  "The  Holy  Roman  Empire."  The  detail* 
here  aic  thielly  Iroiii  llie  tlirouicies  ol  KaKcwiii  and  Olio  of  Freising,  modlfled 
by  some  of  the  Italian  narr-'ives  contained  in  Muratori's  "Scriptores." 


178 


Italian  Cities 


words,  "Beautiful  as  the  moon,  splendid  as  the  sun,  terri- 
ble as  an  army  with  banners."  Well  might  the  restless  and 
rebellious  city  quail  as  the  northern  host  sat  down  before 
its  walls  and  prepared  for  a  siege.  But  the  war  between 
city  and  emperor  was  not  yet  to  the  death.  A  few  fierce 
assaults,  a  few  weeks  of  hard  fighting  distinguished  chiefly 
by  the  savage  cruelty  of  the  Cremonese  and  the  Pavians 
towards  the  Milanese  and  -'ice  versa — a  hatred  marvelous 
and  disgustful  to  the  Germans— and  then  before  autumn 
came  the  citizens  sued  for  peace.  It  was  granted  readily 
enough.  Complete  submission  was  insisted  upon,  but  the 
terms  were  on  the  whole  easy  ones.  All  the  men  of  the 
city  marched  out  with  bare  feet  and  humble  vesture  carry- 
ing their  unsheathed  swords  while  the  emperor,  receiving 
their  oath  of  allegiance  with  placid  countenance — as 
became  one  who  was  still  ''divits  Aitfiustus''  to  a  Christian 
historian—expressed  his  joy  that  God  had  moved  so  fair 
a  city  and  so  great  a  people  to  prefer  peace  rather  than 

war. 

So  the  clash  of  war  ceased  on  the  fair  plains  of  Lom- 
bardy,  and  now  Frederick  called  together  all  the  notables 
of  north  Italy  in  a  great  diet  at  Roncaglia.  "Here,"  to 
paraphrase  an  old  hexameter  narrative,  "was  a  plain, 
green  and  fertile,  where  the  Roman  king  when  he  visited 
the  cities  of  Liguria  wu  accustomed  to  hold  his  court. 
Hither,  therefore,  the  emperor,  wishing  to  hold  an 
assembly  according  to  ancient  custom,  betook  himself, 
and  called  together  the  great  chiefs  of  the  Ligurians  with 
the  wise  men  also  by  whose  learning  he  was  wont  to  revise 
the  laws  and  settle  innumerable  strifes.  Now  then  did  he 
set  forth  a  new  law,  that  all  the  peoples  of  his  empire 
should  submit  to  a  perpetual  treaty  of  peace,  obeying  his 


Milan 


179 


decrees.  None  should  violate,  none  make  fierce  trial  of 
battle,  and  cunning  fraud  and  brutal  rapine  should  pass 
away.  So  did  men  live  in  oldcn  times,  rejoicing  to  lead 
a  heavenly  life  on  earth,  so  that  it  has  been  called  the 
golden  age  of  the  world."  But  alas  for  this  dawn  of 
perpetual  peace!  Learned  doctors  might  set  forth  the 
doctrines  of  imperial  absolutism.  Obsequious  lawyers 
might  report  that  all  the  governing  powers  of  the  cities, 
all  the  tolls  and  taxes,  all  rights  of  navigation,  the  powers 
of  the  podestas,  the  consuls  and  judges,  belonged  to  the 
imperial  government;  that  persons  elected  to  these  dig- 
nities by  the  citizens  should  receive  the  same  as  a  gift 
from  the  hand  of  the  emperor,  and  should  lay  them  aside 
only  with  his  consent.  A  grave  archbishop  might  even 
quote  the  maxim,  what  is  pleasing  to  the  prince  has  the 
jorce  of  law,  and  decla.c  that  whatsoever  the  emperor  by 
letter  or  decree  commanded  thereby  became  law.'  And  yet 
after  all  the  chiefs  and.  lawyers  had  so  mightily  pleased 
the  ci.npcTor  and  themselves  with  their  legal  researches 
and  wise  dicta,  the  contumacious  city  of  Milan  indignantly 
rejected  the  diet's  decisions,  expelled  the  imperial  legates, 
and  took  up  arms  again  with  fierce  resolve  to  fight  the 
matter  out. 

But  if  Milan  was  stirred  to  anger  so  also  was  Freder- 
ick. There  followed  bitter  war  and  a  terrible  three  years' 
siege.  Bravely  indeed  fought  the  Milanese.  But  one  by 
one  their  allies  fell  before  the  great  power  of  the  emperor. 
Piacenza  was  leveled  to  the  ground;  Mantua  and  other 
cities  were  sacked  and  burned;  and  at  last  the  proud  city 


I  It  is  odd  that  while  all  contemporary  chroniclers  alike,  German  and 
Italian,  speak  ol  the  Diet  of  Koncat^lia,  only  the  Germans  set  forth  in  detail 

ihcsc  reports  of  the  lawyers  in  support  ol  Ihc  itiipcrm!  powcf.     The  Staiian 
historians  are  silent  or  use  vague  terms. 


i8o 


Italian  Cities 


came  to  the  end  of  ber  resources,  and  bowed  to  her  con- 
queror. Then  "unable  to  prevail  against  the  anger  of 
Caesar  and  the  weight  of  the  Empire,  Milan,  proud  city 
as  she  was,  head  of  Lig^ria  and  flower  of  all  Italy,  showed 
in  the  completeness  of  her  overthrow  how  perilous  it  was 
to  strive  against  the  onset  of  a  flood,  how  insane  not  to 
yield  to  supreme  maje'-ty."  No  mercy  was  shown  this 
time.  The  humbled  city  was  surrounded.  The  men  of 
Lodi  were  assigned  to  one  gate,  the  men  of  Cremona  to 
another,  of  Como  to  another,  and  so  with  the  other  Italian 
cities  that  hated  their  proud  rival  and  clustered  now  to  aid 
in  her  annihilation.  First  all  the  houses  were  burned,  then 
the  buildings,  the  towers,  the  city  gates,  and  many  of  the 
churches.  For  a  time  one  great  campanile  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  ruin,  marvelous  in  beauty  and  height,  the  like 
of  which  was  seen  nowhere  else  in  Italy.  But  then  this 
too  was  torn  down,  and  the  pride  of  Milan  seemed  shat- 
tered forever.  All  the  cities  of  the  region  came  to  aid  in 
her  destruction.  Almost  all  Lombardy  labored  at  the 
leveling  of  her  walls  and  trenches.  More  was  destroyed 
in  a  few  days,  wrote  the  imperial  notary  Burchardus  to  a 
friend  in  Germany,  than  one  would  have  supposed  could 
be  destroyed  in  two  months,  and  every  day  added  to  the 
ruin  and  desolation. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  The  cities  of  Lombardy 
found  that  in  destroying  their  rival  they  had  destroyed 
their  stoutest  champion.  The  quiet  after  the  storm  lasted 
little  more  than  a  year  or  two.  Then  four  strong  cities 
rose  against  the  podestas  who  ruled  them  in  the  name  of 
the  emperor,  and  formed  a  league.  They  were  backed  by 
Venice,  now  Frederick's  declared  enemy.  The  very  men 
who  had  destroyed  Milan  helped  to  rebuild  her,  and  her 


;  - 1 


Milan 


i8i 


people  drifted  back  to  their  old  homes.  Once  more  the 
queen  city  of  Lombardy  arose  in  her  c  '  pride  ana  cower, 
this  time  head  of  a  Lombard  league  iicl'^'ling  eve-  Lodi 
and  all  the  towns  of  the  northern  plain .  ^Vhen  Frt  ierick 
came  down  to  Rome  in  Ii68  and  saw  his  arniy  Jv  imated 
again  by  the  Roman  fever,  his  unruly  vassals  blocked  the 
approach  to  the  Alpine  passes  so  that  the  wrathful  prince 
had  to  return  to  Germany  by  a  toilsome  and  roundabout 
way.  Alexandria  was  built  by  the  league  as  an  outpost 
city,  protecting  the  highroad  from  Milan  to  Genoa,  so 
that  all  was  ready  when  the  emperor  came  once  more  with 
a  great  host  to  crush  once  for  all  the  insolent  independence 
of  the  Lombard  towns.  Burghers  and  emperor  met  on 
the  field  of  Legnano.*  Again,  as  of  old,  the  stubborn 
Milanese  were  the  backbone  of  the  Italian  host,  and  this 
time  the  Italians  overcame  the  Germans  as  in  bygone  days 
their  ancestors  under  Marius  had  overcome  the  barbaric 
forefathers  of  Barbarossa  and  his  knights.  The  reconcili- 
ation of  the  humbled  emperor  with  the  pope  next  year  at 
Venice,  and  not  many  years  later  the  Peace  of  Constance, 
closed  this  most  famous  episode  in  the  story  of  Milan. 
For  a  time  almost  single-handed,  then  at  the  head  of  a 
great  league,  she  had  fought,  suffered,  and  conquered  in 
the  cause  of  Italy  for  Italians. 

Happy  had  it  been  for  Italy  if  the  victory  had  brought 
also  unity,  national  dignity,  freedom  from  petty,  suicidal 
dissensions,  but  it  was  not  so  to  be.  "Weary  of  unceas- 
ing and  useless  contests,"  says  the  stately  Hallam,' "in 
which  ruin  fell  with  an  alternate  but  equal  hand  upon 
either  party,   liberty  withdrew  from   a  people  who   dis- 

'  Fought  in  May,  1176. 

2  "  Middle  .■Vges,    Chap.  III.,  Part  II. 


i 


l82 


Italian  Cities 


graced  her  name;  and  the  tumultuous,  the  brave,  the 
intractable  Lombards  became  eager  to  submit  themselves 
to  a  master,  and  patient  under  the  heaviest  oppression. 
Before  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  at  the  latest, 
all  those  cities  which  had  spurned  at  the  faintest  mark  of 
submission  to  the  emperors,  lost  even  the  recollection  of 
self-government,  and  were  bequeathed,  like  an  undoubted 
patrimony,  among  the  children  of  their  new  lords.  Such 
is  the  progress  of  usurpation;  and  such  the  vengeance 
that  heaven  reserves  for  those  who  waste  in  license  and 
faction  its  first  of  social  blessings,  liberty."  Milan  was 
one  of  the  first  to  forget  her  struggle  for  independence, 
and  a  century  after  Legnano  accepted  the  lordship  of  the 
Visconti.  After  the  Visconti  came  the  great  house  of 
Sforza.  From  hand  to  hand  passed  the  fallen  queen  of 
north  Italy,  until  in  our  own  day  blazed  forth  once  more 
the  old  spirit  that  had  quelled  Barbarossa,  when  in  the  five 
days  of  March,  1848,  the  Milanese  drove  from  her  streets 
and  gates  the  troops  of  Austria.  A  new  age  was  dawn- 
ing then  after  long  sleep — sleep  which  as  far  as  liberty 
was  concerned  had  lasted  nearly  six  centuries. 

Yet  in  those  long  ages  of  forgotten  independence  the 
material  and  artistic  life  of  the  city  went  on  unchecked, 
and  as  you  wandered  about  the  city  in  this  new  age  of 
union  and  happy  freedom,  you  felt  that  the  genius  of  Milan 
could  never  have  been  really  dead.  The  energy  once 
spent  in  fighting  the  great  emperor  did  not  die  away.  It 
only  turned  into  other  lines,  and  the  people  who  chafed 
and  growled  at  the  tyranny  of  Visconti  or  Sforza  still 
fought  and  traded  and  toiled  as  they  made  their  city  more 
wealthy  and  more  famous  with  each  generation,  proud  of 
her  great  name,  and  perhaps  half  trusting  that  some  time 


ri 


M 


ilan 


»83 


the  spirit  of  old  times  would  come  back  to  her  and  nerve 
the  a  ms  and  hearts  of  her  citizens  to  hold  deeds.  Gal- 
lantly indeed  did  sl^e  fulfil  her  destiny  %» uon  the  time  came 
in  '48  and  in  '59,  when  Piedmont  came  down  from  her 
hills  like  a  strong  youth  to  awaken  with  war  cry  and  sword- 
stroke  the  ancient  dreams  and  deeds  of  Lombardy  and 
Tuscany.  Good  blood  may  flow  sluggishly  or  congeal. 
Seldom  does  it  turn  to  water. 

One  great  name  is  inseparably  associated  with  Milan, 
that  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Here  he  spent  nearly  twenty 
years,  in  the  service  of  that  least  admirable  of  tyrants, 
Lodovico  Sforza,  and  here  he  did  his  most  famous  piece 
of  work.  If  you  could  have  seen  only  one  thing  in  all 
Milan  you  know  well  how  little  doubt  would  have  entered 
your  mind  as  to  what  that  should  be.  In  the  old  refectory 
of  Santa  Maria delle  Grazie,  in  pathetic  and  irreparable  ruin, 
you  may  still  see  one  of  the  three  or  four  world-master- 
pieces of  painting.  "The  artis.,"  says  Goethe,  "repre- 
sents the  peaceful  little  band  round  the  sacred  table  as 
thunder-struck  by  the  Master's  words,  'One  of  you  shall 
betray  me.'  They  have  been  pronounced;  the  whole  com- 
pany is  in  dismay,  while  he  himself  bows  his  head  with 
downcast  eyes.  His  whole  attitude,  the  motion  of  his 
arms  and  hands,  all  seem  to  repeat  with  heavenly  resigna- 
tions, and  his  silence  to  confirm,  the  mournful  words,  'It 
cannot  be  otherwise.  One  of  yoM  shall  betray  me.'  " 
It  was  painted  in  oils  on  the  plaster.  It  is  not  a  fresco. 
And  so,  while  other  paintings,  done  even  earlier  than  this 
"Last  Supper, "  on  scores  of  walls  throughout  Italy  are 
surviving  in  perfect  beauty,  this,  one  of  the  greatest  of 
them  all,  is  decaying  and  passing  to  inevitable  ruin. 
Indeed,  it  scarcely  lasted  in  perfection  fifty  years.     Re- 


Ui 


h 


184 


Italian  Cities 


painted  again  and  again  since  1499,  even  the  added  col- 
ors have  faded,  and  now  it  is  all  a  mere  faded  outline. 
Nothing  can  stay  the  disaster.  One  can  only  photograph 
or  copy,  and  of  the  alternatives,  perhaps  the  photograph 
is  usually  preferable.  There  are  copies  by  skilled  paint- 
ers in  the  room  with  the  original,  supposedly  to  assist  the 
student  in  the  interpretation  of  Leonardo's  work.  And 
yet  you  turn  from  copy  to  original  in  quite  unaffected  irri- 
tation. The  original  is  blotched  and  di!>flgured  indeed, 
terribly  so,  but  somehow  even  to  your  inexpert  eyes  ihere  is 
a  power  and  majesty  in  the  ruined  forms  and  faces  beside 
which  the  copies  look  cheap  and  ordinary.  There  is  quite 
enough  left  to  assist  one's  imagination,'  and  as  you  pore 
over  it,  and  tiy  to  think  yourself  back  into  the  mind  of  the 
painter,  the  outlines  and  colors  come  faintly  back,  the  face 
of  the  Saviour  is  filled  with  its  old  dignity,  its  old  pathos, 
its  old  divine  humanity,  and  you  look  indeed  at  the  "Last 
Supper"  of  our  Lord.  After  all,  no  other  portrayal  of 
the  subject  can  compare  with  it,  ruined  as  it  is.  Andrea's 
is  second,  and  Andrea's  is  a  very  g^eat  painting.  Yet 
the  gap  between  them  is  wide,  and  you  are  left  with  the 
melancholy  certainty  that  in  the  space  of  only  a  few  years 
one  of  the  greatest  paintings  of  all  time  will  have  ceased 
to  be.' 

There  is  no  more  cosmopolitan,  less  provincial,  city  in 
Italy  than  Milan,  unless  it  be  Rome  herself, — none  that 
seems  quite  so  naturally  to  have  adjusted  its  conditions 

'The  imagrination  is  not,  in  this  case,  left  quite  to  itself.  The  drawings 
of  Leonardo  may  render  anv  student  familiar  with  his  stvlc.  and  the  sketch  of 
the  head  of  Christ  in  the  "Brera  '  at  Milan  aids  greatly  in  the  appreciation  and 
reconstruction  of  the  painting. 

2  Of  Leonardo's  paintings  "  LaGioconda,"  called  also  "  Monna  Lisa,"  and 
the  "Madonna  of  the  Kocks,"  both  in  the  Louvre,  may  be  most  safely  com- 
mended to  students.  Copies  of  the  drawings  may  be  found  in  Richter's 
"  Literary  Wui  ke  uj  LeuiiaiUo  dtt  Viucl."  VVatler  I'dler'scSsay  ou  Luouardoin 
bis  "Renaissance  "  is  worth  reading. 


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**' 

c9 

y  in 

^||-                        jPate-i^J- . 

i 

that 

a& 

ipjH                 -B^.Ai^B|." 

ons 

''^'^B 

irings 
chof 

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and 

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and 

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com- 

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ter's 

lioin 

i^mi 


Milan 


185 


and  appearance  to  the  customs  and  requirements  of  a  city 
in  the  modern  sense  of  the  word.  Siena  is  Sienese,  Flor- 
ence is  Florentine,  Venice  is  Venetian,  Naples  is  Neapoli- 
tan, but  Milan  is  simply  Italian.  In  spite  of  yourself  you 
think  in  Assisi  of  St.  Francis,  in  Florence  of  Dante  and 
Lorenzo,  for  in  and  through  the  buzz  of  modern  life  and 
the  glare  of  modern  things  breathes  an  echo  of  older  times 
that  you  cannot  escape  from.  A  trolley-car  doubtless 
carries  you  through  the  streets  of  Florence,  but  it  lands 
you  beside  Giotto's  tower,  or  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
the  Bargello,  where  you  may  tread  steps  that  Dante  trod. 
You  may  buy  picture  post-cards  in  Assisi,  but  you  cannot 
lift  your  eyes  without  seeing  the  Church  of  St.  Francis, 
or  the  old  castle  on  the  mountain-top,  or  the  dome  in  the 
plain  that  shelters  the  Portiuncola.  And  in  each  city  it  is 
the  older,  not  the  newer,  life  that  you  think  of  and  see. 
But  in  Milan  the  modem  life  has  swept  quite  over  the 
ancient  and  medieval.  Once  the  most  obstinate  and  inde- 
pendent of  city  states,  it  is  now  simply  a  thriving  and 
wealthy  member  of  the  great  commonwealth  of  Italy. 
The  old  days  of  the  Lombard  league  and  the  strife  with 
Barbarossa  are  quite  gone,  and  even  the  great  Cathedral, 
with  its  infinitely  labored  adornment,  its  stuccoed  pillars, 
gives  to  the  world  not  the  message  of  a  mighty  generation 
or  a  surpassing  genius,  not  the  message  of  St.  Mark's,  of 
the  Duomo  of  Siena,  or  Giotto's  Campanile,  but  that  of 
Galeazzo  Visconti  the  tyrant,  of  Napoleon  the  conqueror, 
and  of  ruler  after  ruler,  architect  after  architect,  from  the 
fourteenth  century  to  the  twentieth. 

So  the  great  memories  of  the  twelfth  century  are 
memories  only.  Milan  never  quite  did  for  Lombardy 
what  Florence  did  for  Tuscany.     Her  compensation  has 


i86 


Italian  Cities 


been  that  her  very  lack  of  distinctive  character,  her 
willing  eclecticism,  her  readiness  to  adapt  herself  to  each 
succeeding  age  and  fortune,  has  made  her  now  the  most 
modern,  the  most  thoroughly  alive  city  in  the  whole  of 
Italy.  She,  too,  then,  has  her  contribution  to  the  new  life 
of  her  new  country.  Not  that  of  Florence  or  Venice,  but 
one  just  as  necessary — vitality,  nervous  energy,  adapta- 
bility, and  joyous  willingness  to  accept  modern  con- 
ditions. So  may  she  still  be  a  great  city,  proud  of  her 
memories  of  Legnano  and  Leonardo,  and  still  prouder, 
doubtless,  of  the  five  days  of  1848.  Yet  after  -"^u  have 
rejoiced  in  her  wealth  and  life  and  up-to-date  ways,  you 
may  be  glad — since  after  all  you  are  still  in  Italy — to  step 
into  the  quiet  rooms  of  the  Ambrosian  Library,  or  into 
the  refectory  where  hangs  in  ruined  majesty  the  "Last 
Supper."  Then  again  as  in  Assisi  or  Rome  the  centuries 
flit  away,  and  you  hear  faintly  the  shouts  of  Barbarossa's 
army,  or  the  murmured  talk  of  Duke  Ludovico  and  Leo- 
nardo as  they  stand  before  the  new  masterpiece. 


*>-|»«*K~.' 


her 
each 
most 

le  of 
V  life 
,  but 
ipta- 
con- 
her 
ider, 
have 
you 
step 
into 
Last 
uries 
ssa's 
Leo- 


CHAPTER   XI 

FROM   TURIN   TO  ROME.     THF   REGENERATION 
OF    ITALY 

Two  cities  stand  out  before  all  others  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  have  watched  the  growth  of  modern  Italy, — one, 
the  oldest  in  story  of  all,  and  the  greatest  in  achievement, — 
the  other  known  to  the  world  scarcely  at  all  until  recently, 
and  now  known  simply  as  the  capital  of  the  little  state 
that  has  united  Italy,  the  city  of  Victor  Emmanuel.  To 
see  the  Piedmontese  themselves,  and  to  know  them,  we 
ought  to  stand  in  the  great  Piazza  Castello  in  Turin  as  we 
have  stood  in  the  Piazza  S.  Pietro  in  Rome,  the  Piazza 
S.  Marco  in  Venice.  Or  better  still,  we  should  journey 
slowly  through,  say,  the  glorious  valley  of  Aosta,  and  visit 
t'  0  homes  of  those  who  have  been  paving  Piedmont's  way 
to  greatness  here  on  the  mountain  slopes,  living  healthy, 
sturdy  lives,  biding  their  time  until  their  noble  House  of 
Savoy  should  lead  them  to  great  deeds. 

But  since  Turin  is  not  so  much  a  city  of  memories  as 
of  recent  achievements,  we  shall  change  our  point  of  view 
a  little.  We  shall  leave  the  city  by  the  Po,  ride  off  until 
even  the  great  dome  of  the  Superga  '  fades  in  the  distance 
or  is  hidden  by  the  hills,  and  on  a  mountain  slope  from 
which  we  may  in  vision  overlook  the  whole  plain  and  see 
even  to  stately  Milan  and  the  fertile  fields  of  Lombardy, 
we  shall  survey  the  events  of  the  last  hundred  years,  the 
awakening  of  Italy;  and  we  shall  find  our  horizon  widen- 

•  The  great  burial  church  ol  the  house  of  Savoy. 

187 


i88 


Italian  Cities 


ing.  too,  towards  the  south,  until  Sicily  and  Naples  come 
into  view  again,  and  then  Rome  herself.  For  if  Italy's 
story  begins,  in  a  sense,  when  you  first  see  the  city  on 
the  Tiber  emerging  in  some  clear  shape  from  the  mists  of 
the  far  past,  if  it  is  true  that  in  each  phase  of  the  growth 
and  change  of  the  Italian  race  the  scepter  sooner  or  later 
has  come  to  Rome,  then  we  may  well  think  of  the  genius 
of  that  race  taking  a  new  breath  and  looking  forward  to  a 
new  era,  when  the  princes  of  Savoy  take  their  abode  on 
the  Quirinal,  and  when  the  ashes  of  an  Italian  king  are 
laid  to  rest  in  the  Pantheon. 

The  peninsula  of  Italy  is,  one  may  suppose,  the  most 
romantic  and  picturesque  part  of  Europe  in  its  wealth  of 
associations.     And  yet  if  ;  -i  had  said  as  much  to  a  patri- 
otic Italian  one  hundre  1  s  ago,  instead  of  acknowl- 
edging your  compliment  with  pride  he  would  have  given 
you  but  a  dreary  answer:     "What  matters  a  glorious 
past,"  he  might  have  said,  "when  there  is  no  present  and 
no  future.     Italy  is  dead."     And  indeed  it  seemed  so. 
Long  after  the  nineteenth  century  was  well  under  way  the 
.  Austrian  chancellor  Metternich  was  able  to  say  with  every 
'   appearance  of  truth  that  Italy  was  only  a  geographical 
expression.     She  had  no  national  life,  had  known  no  unijt^ 
even  under  a  despotic  ruler,  no  unity  of  any  type,  for  more 
than  a  thousand  years.     Even  Germany  had  more  promise 
of  unity  than  had  Italy.     There  was  at  least  the  idea  of 
unitv  in   eighteenth-century   Germany,   and   though   the 
separation  of  state  from  state  was  bad  enough  there,  more 
complicated  indeed  in  its  subdivision  than  in  Italy,  yet 
even  Bavaria  and  Prussia  were  not  so  deeply— one  would 
almost  say  irreparably -divided   as  Florence  was  from 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


189 


Rome,  Piedmont  from  Lombardy,  Venice  from  Naples. 
Italy  contained  eleven  political  divisions  which  had  not 
been  united  under  one  sovereignty  for  twelve  hundred 
years.  If  you  had  asked  a  Venetian  to  consider  the  great 
past  of  his  country  he  might  indeed  have  reflected  with 
pride  on  the  past  of  Venice,  but  not  of  Italy.  Italy  was 
not  his  country.  Venice  had  been  founded,  had  risen  in 
centuries  of  toil  and  trade  to  be  one  of  the  first  maritime 
and  commercial  states  in  the  world,  had  gradually  declined, 
and  was  finally  delivered  over  by  Napoleon  to  the  hands 
of  Austria  without  ever  once  in  her  thousand  years  of  his- 
tory forming  part  of  a  united  Italy.  She  had  developed 
her  own  peculiar  form  of  civilization;  so  had  Florence,  so 
had  Rome,  so  had  Naples  and  Sicily.  The  traditions  of 
each  were  as  different  from  those  of  the  other  cities  of  Italy 
as  those  of  London  are  from  Paris  and  Berlin.  The  bar- 
riers between  them  seemed  to  go  so  far  and  so  deeply  into 
the  past  ages  that  any  unity  of  life  and  aim  seemed  absard. 
Yet  we  have  seen  them  overcome  and  Italy  united  during 
the  last  hundred  years,  chiefly  by  the  genius,  courage, 
and  constancy  of  four  men, — Mazzini,  Garibaldi,  Victor 
Emmanuel,  and  Cavour.  "' 

The  shock  of  a  revolution  was  needed  first,  though. 
In  1789  there  was  no  spirit  in  Italy  and  there  were  no 
leaders  who  could  ever  carry  through  a  practical  move- 
ment for  liberation.  Southern  and  central  Italy  were 
hopelessly  degraded  and  spiritless  after  centuries  of 
oppressive  rule.  And  even  the  north  was  still  almost 
medieval  in  its  lack  of  culture,  its  antiquated  laws,  its 
superstition,  its  widespread  poverty  and  disease,  its  com- 
plete disregard  of  sanitation  and  cleanliness,  and  its  lack 


'7     _. 


190 


Italian  Cities 


of  any  national  spirit.  The  kin^  of  Naples '  misniled 
south  Italy  and  Sicily.  The  pope  was  temporal  lord  of 
Rome  and  the  center  as  well  as  spiritual  head  of  the 
Catholic  world.  Just  north  of  the  papal  dominions  came 
the  Grand  Duchy  of  Tuscany  and  the  smaller  nuchies  of 
Lucca,  Modcna,  and  Parma.  Then  further  north  still 
were  the  two  old  republics  of  Genoa  and  Venice,  the 
kingdom  of  Sardinia,^  and  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  ruled 
by  Austria.  In  not  one  of  these  was  there  evident  even 
the  germ  of  national  life.  Tuscany  and  Lombardy  were 
doubtless  the  most  enlightened  and  the  best  governed, 
but  in  neither  was  the  thought  of  free  political  action  tol- 
erated for  a  moment. 

Into  this  group  of  antiquated,  dust-covered  princi- 
palities and  powers,  in  which  the  government  of  Florence 
(where  Leopold  reigned,  brother  of  Marie  Antoinette)  was 
the  only  one  that  at  all  reflected  the  new  intellectual  rest- 
lessness of  the  time,  came  like  a  thunderbolt  the  shock  of 
the  F"rench  Revolution.  Napoleon's  first  independent  com- 
mand was  in  P"'y,  where  in  1796-97,  he  led  the  armies 
of  the  new  repi  ^lic  against  Austria.  In  swift  succession 
every  despot  in  Italy  was  swept  from  his  throne.  Repub- 
lics arose  under  the  protection  of  France  in  Naples,  Rome, 
and  Lombardy,  and  the  bewildered  people  of  Italy  had  to 
awaken  to  a  new  point  of  view  with  the  entrance  into  their 
political  vocabulary  of  the  three  words,  liberty,  equality, 
and  fraternity.  But  the  French  republican  general  became 
an  emperor,  and  the  Italian  republics  that  Ik  had  raised 

'  Moro  iiroi)erly,  king  ol  the  Two  Sicilies.  Oftiii  in  the  older  histories 
Sicily  is  called  Trinacria,  and  south  Italy  Sicilia,  so  that  the  realm  ol  the  king 
whose  capital  was  at  Naples  might  be  called  the  Two  Sicilies. 

nVith  its  cr.pitnl  :it  Turin  in  ritrdiBont.  'n  these  psge?  P'edm.-.nt  =nd 
Sardinia  will  he  interchangeable  terms  to  describe  the  kingdom  of  Charles 
Albert  and  Victor  Emanuel. 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


191 


into  life  were  changed  into  kingdoms,  -not  the  old  ones, 
but  new  ones,  with  Napoleon  himself  as  king  of  one  and 
his  brother-in-law,  Murat,  of  another.  Then  Waterloo 
came.  Napoleon  went  to  St.  Helena.  The  powers  he 
had  raised  up  vanished,  and  the  old  princes  came  back  to 
their  thrones.-  Only  a  few  changes  were  made.  Genoa 
was  annexed  now  to  the  kingdom  of  Sardinia.  Vonice 
was  given  to  Austria.  Austria  more  than  evtr  dominated 
all  the  states  of  Italy,  and  the  revolutionary  period  seemed 
now  doubtless  to  the  returning  princes  and  the  absolutist 
statesmen  like  an  evil  dream  of  chan^^e  and  turmoil  that 
was  happily  over.  But  it  was  no  dreai.i.  The  revolution 
had  been  most  real,  and  he  Italians  had  been  taught 
lessons  as  to  the  instability  of  thrones,  the  benefits  of 
good  government,  the  fascination  of  liberty,  and  the  possi- 
bilities of  unity  that  could  never  be  wholly  forgotten — 
however  obscured  they  might  be  by  the  exhaustion  of  the 
people  after  the  disturbed  period  since  1796.  The  first 
phase  of  the  liberation  of  Italy  had  come  and  gone.  Italy 
had  been  shaken  out  of  her  sleep,  and  had  .een  given  by 
the  great  Italian  emperor  of  the  French  a  glimpse  of  a 
dawn,  that  might  indeed  be  lost  for  a  time  in  black  clouds, 
but  would  surely  in  time  break  into  the  full  light  of  a  new 
Jay. 

Now  came  the  period  which  has  been  aptly  called  the 
Thirty  Years'  Peace,  extending  from  1815,  the  year  of 
Waterloo,  to  1848,  the  great  year  of  revolutions.  If  you 
find  your  way  through  a  periotl  by  the  aid  chiefly  of  wars 
and  treaties  and  convulsions  it  is  a  hard  thirty-three  years 
to  keep  track  of,  for  it  was  a  time  of  singularly  little  out- 
ward change.  One  spasm  did  break  the  quiet. — the 
revolution  of   1830, — but   it  was  quickly   over,  and  the 


\gi 


Italian  Cities 


occasional  riots  and  rebellions  in  Italy  or  Hungary  or 
Poland  that  now  and  then  seemed  likely  to  disturb  the 
peace  of  Europe  were  stamped  out  quickly  and  thoroughly. 
But  if  we  look  beneath  the  surface  we  shall  see  that  these 
little  quickly  suppressed  commotions  were  the  bubbles  of  a 
steady  and  persistent  seething  underneath.  All  those 
minds — and  they  numbered  many  thousands — which  had 
been  stirred  into  restless  life  by  the  revolutionary  era 
were  busy  conning  over  the  new  ideals  and  casting  about 
for  some  practical  way  of  realizing  them.  At  the  same 
time  the  practical  statesmen  who  were  seeking  to  reduce 
things  to  order  after  the  turmoil  of  the  revolution — who 
looked  upon  liberty  as  the  dangerous  watchword  of  anarchy 
and  rebellion,  the  tiresome  idol  of  fanatics — were  for  their 
part  making  it  their  sole  business  to  govern,  to  repress 
agitation,  and  to  strengthen  thr  thrones  that  had  been  so 
sorely  shaken. 

These  two  hostile  groups  had  each  their  great  repre- 
sentative during  this  thirty  years'  peace.  The  incarna- 
tion of  the  old  ideas,  the  great  statesman  of  expiring 
absolutism,— the  stern,  unyielding  supporter  of  law  and 
order  as  he  understood  the  phrase,  and  the  crushing  and 
powerful  enemy  of  liberty,  was  Prince  Metternich,  chan- 
cellor of  the  Austrian  empire.  With  Russia  and  Prussia 
as  his  allies,  and  the  princes  of  Italy  almost  his  subjects, 
Metternich  was  able  to  stand  as  the  chief  exponent  of 
absolute  power  through  a  great  part  of  Europe  from  1815 
to  1848,  In  Italy  Austria  was  practically  all-powerful. 
Metternich's  eye  and  arm  seemed  to  penetrate  into  every 
comer.  Every  word  or  action  that  might  portend  even 
possible  agitation  or  opposition  meant  some  one's  instant 
arrest  and  condemnation  to  years  of  imprisonment  in  some 


'^^m^ 


innmmf^m^Fmmwmm 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


193 


lonely  fortress  in  Austria,  Hungary,  or  Bohemia.  Metter- 
nich  then  was  the  practical  embodiment  of  the  statecraft 
and  power  of  the  old  system. 

But  opposed  to  Mettemich  was  a  figure  which  stood 
out  in  singular  contrast  to  him.  Prince  as  he  was,  backed 
by  the  emperor  of  Austria,  and  feared  by  all  Europe,  the 
powerful  chancellor  was  troubled  by  a  shabbily  clad,  care- 
worn exile  who  wandered  about  Europe  under  the  ban  of 
governments,  finding  at  last  indeed  his  only  safe  refuge  in 
England,  hard  put  to  it  sometimes  to  know  where  his  next 
meal  was  coming  from,  with  the  bondage  of  Italy  burning 
into  his  soul,  and  with  the  vitality  of  genius  radiating  light 
and  energy  from  him  into  every  part  of  Europe.  Poor 
and  weak  as  Giuseppe  Mazzini  was,  his  devotion  and  his 
genius  made  him  a  match  for  Mettemich  himself,  an 
apostle  and  leader  of  the  winning  side  in  the  great  strug- 
gle between  freedom  and  tyranny. 

Mazzini'  was  bom  in  Genoa,  June  22,  1805.  That  is 
to  say,  he  grew  to  boyhood  and  manhood  in  the  latter 
days  of  Napoleon's  regime  and  the  years  immediately 
following  Waterloo.  His  father  and  his  mother  were 
cultured,  capable  people,  both  keenly  interested  in  the 
tremendous  political  movements  of  their  time,  and  both 
Liberals.  So  the  boy  learned  the  first  principles  of 
democracy  from  his  parents,  and  these  home  lessons  were 
illustrated  and  strengthened  by  the  constant  undertone  of 
political  discussion  that  he  heard  about  him  from  the  time 
when  words  began  to  mean  anything  to  his  childish  ears, 
—talk  of  the  great  Revolution,  of  the  doings  of  Napoleon, 

'See  Bolton  King's  "Mazzini"  and  "  History  of  Italian  Unity,"  Thayer's 
Uawn  of  Italian  Independence.'  Stillinan's  "Union  of  Italy,  "  and  the  Count- 
ess Lesaresco  s  "  Lihpr!(tinn  of  Italv   "    This  last  is  probably  the  best  account 
01  the  whole  movement  in  a  single  volume. 


'. um'at  «^i  I  mmt'imaiil-a 


194 


Italian  Cities 


il' 


of  the  fitful  rise  and  disappearance  of  the  Italian  repub- 
lics, of  the  disappointments  that  had  come,  of  the  loss  of 
Genoese  independence,  and  of  the  prospects  for  the 
future.  Even  his  lessons  in  Greek  and  Latin,  telling 
him  of  the  great  city  republics  of  ancient  times,  taught 
him  lessons  as  to  the  blessings  of  liberty  and  the  hateful- 
ness  of  tyranny.  So  it  was  natural  as  he  grew  to  years 
of  responsibility  that  he  should  face  with  growing  anxiety 
the  situation  in  Italy.  The  state  of  affairs  was  very  bad 
— as  bad  as  it  well  could  be.  But  what  could  b3  done! 
What  could  possibly  relieve  his  down-trodden,  degraded 
fellow-countrymen  from  the  gigantic  power  of  Austria! 
Only  education,  and  patient,  persistent  agitation  leading  to 
a  national  revolt  at  some  time  in  the  future, — and  towards 
this  end  Mazzini  directed  his  effor.-,  with  increasing  clear- 
ness of  vision  and  certainty  of  conviction.  He  joined  the 
society  of  the  Carbonari,  the  only  revolutionary  organiza- 
tion that  he  could  find,  and  for  a  time  worked  faithfully 
in  its  ranks.  But  he  was  dissatisfied  with  the  results.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  this  great  international  secret  society 
was  too  mysterious,  too  cosmopolitan,  too  subtle,  and 
devious  in  its  methods  to  ever  excite  a  really  national 
enthusiasm  for  the  cause  of  Italy.  And  it  was  too  con- 
servative, too  cautious  and  slow  moving  for  the  impatient 
young  Genoese,  who  so  ardently  yearned  for  the  dawning 
of  the  new  age  of  liberty  and  unity. 

He  was  arrested  for  his  suspected  share  in  a  Car- 
bonari conspiracy,  and  six  months  of  enforced  quiet 
were  given  him  in  the  fortress  of  Savona.  Here  he  went 
over  the  whole  situation  in  his  mind.  The  more  he 
thought  of  it  the  more  decidedly  did  he  turn  away  from 
the  Carbuiiari  as  the  possible  regenerators  of  Italy.     He 


t\ 


iBBtai 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


195 


decided  there  in  the  prison  to  found  a  new  society  which 
should  be  purely  national,  which  should  be  simple  and 
clear  in  its  aims,  and  which  should  adopt  an  aggressive 
and  vigorous  plan  of  campaign.  The  leaders  of  the  Car- 
bonari were,  perhaps,  too  old,  too  experienced  in  disap- 
pointments and  failures  to  have  the  full  revolutionary  dash 
and  enterprise,  so  Mazzini  resolved  to  call  his  society 
'Young  Italy,"  and  to  accept  no  member  who  was  over 
forty  years  of  age.  There  in  the  Savona  cell  "Young 
Italy"  was  born,  then,  and  when  Mazzini  was  released 
for  lack  of  evidence  and  because  of  his  youth,  he  quickly 
began  to  gather  in  members.  The  new  society  caught 
the  people's  fancy  at  once.  To  make  Italy  one,  jree,  and 
repiihlkun — this  was  the  simple,  threefold  'aim  of  the 
enthusiastic  band  of  young  men  who  gathered  about  their 
silver-tongued  leader,  and  "Young  Italy"  soon  numbered 
its  tens  of  thousands. 

Mazzini  himself  was  soon  exiled.  He  had  to  wander 
about  for  a  time,  hunted  and  unsettled,  but  after  a  year 
or  two  he  drifted  to  London.  A  foggy,  dismal  place  it 
seemed  after  the  bright  beauty  of  the  Riviera,  and  yet 
friends  were  quickly  made— the  Cariyles  among  others— 
and  by  degrees  t^-  indness  of  kindred  souls,  the  good- 
ness of  heart  i  ..  who  sympathized  openly  with  the 
cause  that  the  <  :.  » loved,  made  the  great  city  a  second 
home  which  bee  ■  .  v^ery  dear  to  him.  Here  he  worked 
on  steadily  for  the  liberation  of  Italy.  Letters  and  pam- 
phlets unceasingly  crossed  the  channel.  Month  by  month 
and  year  by  year  liberals  throughout  Europe,  but  espe- 
cially in  Italy,  found  themselves  looking  with  increasing 
eagerness  for  any  new  word  from  this  prophet  of  the 
burning  heart,  the  restless,  vigorous  brain,  and  the  magic 


196 


Italian  Cities 


1*1  '■ 


pen.  The  leaders  who  were  still  permitted  to  work  in 
Italy,  or  who  visited  their  country  at  their  own  peril,  kept 
constant  communication  with  their  great  leader.  Con- 
spiracies were  formed,  detected,  and  broken;  revolts  were 
begun  and  crushed;  brave  men  were  shot  or  hanged  or 
spirited  away  to  lifelong  imprisonment.  Yet  still  new 
plans  were  formed  and  new  patriots  came  forward  to  take 
the  places  of  the  fallen  and  lost,  and  still  the  messages  of 
hope  and  inspiration  from  Mazzini  came  to  cheer  and 
stimulate  and  gather  new  recruits  for  the  host  of  "Young 
Italy."  His  faith  never  wavered,  no  matter  how  dull  and 
spiritless  his  people  seemed :  no  matter  how  invincible  and 
cruel  their  oppressors.  Love  of  country  was  a  religion 
to  him  now,  and  he  sought  to  make  it  so  to  others. 
"That  old  name  of  Italy,  hung  round  with  memories  and 
glory  and  majestic  griefs  that  centuries  of  mute  servitude 
could  not  destroy"  was  indeed  a  new  name  to  most  Ital- 
ians, and  it  needed  more  elevation  of  spirit  than  most  of 
them  possessed  to  see  his  "vision  of  their  country,  radi- 
ant, purified  by  suffering,  moving  as  an  angel  of  light 
among  the  nations  that  thought  her  dead."  Yet  he 
worked  on  without  despair.  "I  see  the  people  pass 
before  my  eyes,"  he  wrote,  "in  the  livery  of  wretched- 
ness and  political  subjection,  ragged  and  hungry,  painfully 
gathering  the  crumbs  that  wealth  tosses  insuiJngly  to  it. 
or  lost  and  wandering  in  riot  and  the  intoxication  of  a 
brutish,  angry,  savage  joy;  and  I  remember  that  those 
brutalized  faces  bear  the  finger-print  of  God,  the  mark  of 
the  same  mission  as  our  own.  I  lift  myself  to  the  vision 
of  the  future,  and  behold  the  people  rising  in  its  majesty, 
brothers  in  one  faith,  one  bond  of  equality  and  love,  one 
ideal  of  citizen  virtue  that  ever  grows  in   beauty  and 


IfcaiUK'-in  ••»»••'»> '^^ 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


»9/ 


might;  the  people  of  the  future,  uns]  iled  by  luxury, 
ungoaded  by  wretchedness,  awed  by  the  consciousness  of 
its  rights  and  duties.  And  in  the  presence  of  that  vision 
my  heart  beats  with  anguish  for  the  present  and  glorying 
for  the  future,"  ' 

In  1848  seemed  to  come  the  beginning  of  the  real- 
ization of  at  least  part  of  Mazzini's  dream.  A  sudden 
flame  of  revolt  in  the  south  shocked  the  king  of  Naples 
into  a  reluctant  grant  of  a  constitution  to  his  people. 
This  was  in  January,  and  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  wave 
of  revolution.  On  February  7th  Charles  Albert  granted 
a  constitution  to  Piedmont.  Before  the  month  was  over 
came  the  news  of  a  great  revolution  in  Paris  and  of  the 
assembly  at  Mannheim  demanding  a  free  parliament  for 
Germany.  The  liberal  Pope  Pius  IX.  inaugurated  a  sys- 
tem of  reform  in  Rome.  The  flame  reached  Lombardy, 
when  the  Milanese  expelled  the  Austrians  in  five  terrible 
days  of  street  fighting,  and  the  dukes  fled  in  panic  from 
Tuscany,  Modena,  Parma,  and  Lucca,  leaving  their  states 
in  the  hands  of  provisional  governments.  The  whole 
fabric  of  absolutism  seemed  to  be  staggering  to  its  fall. 
From  Vienna  came  the  great  news  of  risings  in  March 
which  compelled  Metternich  himself  to  flee  for  his  life. 
More  riots  came  in  May;  the  emperor  had  to  leave  his 
capital;  Hungary  and  Bohemia  rose  in  national  revolts; 
and  the  tearing  apart  of  Austria,  that  stronghold  of  des- 
potism, that  stern  power  which  had  so  long  held  down  the 
popular  aspirations  of  the  Italians,  seemed  imminent, 
indeed  almost  accomplished.  What  if  the  pope's  heart 
failed  him,  so  that  he  left  Rome  and  joined  the  king  of 
Naples  at  Gaetal     The  Romans,  in  no  wise  dis' .•'artened, 

>  Bolton  King's  "  Mazzini,"  p.  28. 


198 


Italian  Cities 


organized  a  republic,  and  guided  and  inspired  by  Mazzini 
himself,  prepared  to  make  good  their  claim  of  indepen- 
dence. Charles  Albert,  stirred  by  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
peoDle,  placed  Sardinia  at  the  head  of  an  Italian  rising 
ag  ■  it  the  power  of  Austria.  Indeed,  it  appeared  that 
he  had  for  years  been  awaiting  this  opportunity.  He  had 
said  once  to  a  good  Liberal  who  brought  to  him  reports  of 
the  hopes  and  dreams  of  patriots  all  over  Italy:  "Let 
those  gentlemen  know  that  for  the  present  they  must 
remain  quiet ;  but  when  the  time  comes,  let  them  be  cer- 
tain my  life,  the  lives  of  my  sons,  my  arms,  my  treasures 
— all  shall  be  freely  spent  in  the  Italian  cause."  '  Now 
the  promise  was  to  be  redeemed. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  One  likes  to  pass  quickly 
over  these  two  years,  1848-49.  It  is  never  pleasant,  and 
it  is  not  always  profitable  to  dwell  upon  disaster.  Mazzini 
and  Charles  Albert  had  reckoned  too  hopefully  on  that 
most  inscrutable  and  unreliable  of  forces — the  people. 
Mazzini's  vision  of  a  united  and  free  Italy  was  so  real  and 
sacred  to  him  that  it  was  inconceivable  to  him  that  the 
millions  of  his  fellow-countrymen  should  not  feel  the  same 
passion  of  patriotism  that  burned  in  his  own  heart.  And 
Charles  Albert  never  dreamed  but  that  the  enthusiastic 
Tuscans  and  Romans  and  Neapolitans  who  urged  him  to 
lead  in  a  national  war  would  bring  strong  legions  of  brave 
fighters  from  the  center  and  south  to  support  the  gallant 
army  of  Piedmont.  There  was  no  intentional  deceit; 
just  the  inevitable  abyss  between  the  optimism  and  enthu- 
siasm of  the  few  and  the  indifference  and  inertia  of  the 
many.  Italy  was  not  yet  fully  awakened  or  adjusted  to  the 
idea  of  a  real  national  rising.  And  it  is  equally  true  that  she 

I  Godkio,  "  Life  of  Victor  Emmanuel  11.,"  p.  22. 


*iBUll¥.^Mi^»»l>n"lW^^-•■■ 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


199 


had  not  yet  found  her  leader.  Mazzini  was  prophet  and 
teacher,  but  no  statesman;  Charles  Albert  was  an  hon- 
est man,  a  patriot,  and  a  brave  soldier,  but  he  was  no 
general.  Against  the  subtle  diplomatists,  the  veteran 
generals,  the  disciplined  battalions  of  Austria,  poor  Italy 
had  little  chance.  A  victory  won  by  the  king  in  May  at 
Goito  was  followed  by  a  crushing  defeat  at  the  hands  of 
the  Austrian  marshal  Radetski  at  Custozza,  July  25th.  A 
truce  tied  the  hands  of  the  combatants  until  the  following 
spring,  and  then  on  the  woeful  field  of  Novara  the  cause 
of  Italy  suffered  so  crushing  a  reverse  that  no  resurrec- 
tion seemed  possible.  Rome,  heroically  defended  for  nine 
weeks  by  Garibaldi  and  his  brave  companions  against 
France '  as  well  as  Austria,  fell  in  July.  Venice  sur- 
rendered  in  August,  after  five  short  months  of  liberty  and 
independence.  Italy  was  enslaved  again,  and  the  chains 
seemed  tighter  and  surer  than  ever. 

Nothing  could  have  fallen  more  heavily  on  the  hearts 
of  Mazzini  and  his  sanguine  followers  than  the  utter 
failure  of  so  brave  an  effort  to  combine  all  Italians  in  a 
national  struggle.  And  the  gallant  Piedmontese,  who  had 
borne  the  brunt  of  the  war,  the  Milanese  who  had  fought 
so  bravely  and  exulted  so  triumphantly  and  prematurely 
found  it  hard  to  reconcile  themselves  to  the  weight  of  the 
disaster.  But  the  brave  men  who  had  fallen  on  each 
hard-fought  field  of  that  sad  year  had  not  died  in  vain. 
They  were  martyrs  for  Italy,  and  they  left  a  memory 
which  nerved  their  comrades  and  their  sons  to  emulation 
and  final  victory.     "Deeming  that  the  punishment  of  their 

'  ^"is  Napoleon,  later  Napoleon  111.,  was  now  president  of  the  French 
Kepublic.  Whether  to  renew  the  tradition  of  the  old  Icings— "eldest  sons  of 
thechurch— or  to  secure  the  favor  of  the  Catholics  of  France,  in  view  of  his 
designs  on  French  liberty,  he  declared  that  he  could  not  permit  the  overthrow 
by  the  Komans  of  the  pope's  authority. 


200 


Italian  Cities 


f  ■ 


enemies  was  sweeter  than  wealth  or  the  pleasures  of  life 
or  the  hope  of  these,  and  that  they  could  fall  in  no  nobler 
cause,  they  determined  at  the  hazard  of  their  lives  to  be 
honorably  avenged,  and  to  leave  the  rest.  They  resigned 
to  hope  their  unknown  chance  of  happiness;  but  in  the 
face  of  death  they  resolved  to  rely  upon  themselves  alone. 
And  when  the  moment  came  they  were  minded  to  resist 
and  suffer,  rather  than  to  fly  and  save  their  lives;  they 
ran  away  from  the  word  of  dishonor,  but  on  the  battle- 
field their  feet  stood  fast,  and  in  an  instant,  at  the  height 
of  their  fortune,  they  passed  away  from  the  scene,  not  of 
their  fear,  but  of  their  glory."  ' 

But  even  on  the  day  of  Novara  the  defeat  was  fol- 
lowed, if  men  could  have  seen  it,  by  an  omen  of  better 
days  to  come.  For  then  Charles  Albert,  broken  in  heart 
and  spirit,  gave  up  his  crown  to  his  eldest  son,  and  the 
gallant  prince  who  had  been  the  soul  of  the  Piedmontese 
attack  and  resistance  in  the  fight  now  took  up  the  hard 
task  that  his  father  laid  down,  and  became  king  of 
Sardinia,  Victor  Emmanuel  II.  Victor  Emmanuel!  There 
was  courage  and  hope  in  the  name  itself  surely,  but  there 
was  little  inclination  in  the  sad  group  of  patriots  to  see 
hope  in  a  name.  The  times  v;ere  too  sadly  out  of  joint, 
and  too  much  good  blood  had  been  shed  at  Custozza  and 
Novara. 

Yet  in  truth  the  darkest  hour  was  past  when  the  sum- 
mer of  1849  reached  its  close.  The  new  king  had  not  the 
record  of  vacillation  which  would  have  hampered  his 
father.  Taking  up  the  heavy  task  of  retrieving  the  for- 
tunes of  Piedmont  with  a  brave  heart  and  a  strong  will, 
holding  to  the  promise  of  a  constitution  without  a  doubt  or 

'"Thucydides"  (Jowetfs  translation),  Look  II. 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


20I 


a  regret,  Victor  Emmanuel  concluded  peace  with  Austria 
and  came  back  to  Turin,  knowing  well  what  lay  before 
him  and  prepared  to  face  his  destiny.  Piedmont  must  no 
longer  be  an  absolutist,  medieval  st-.lc;  1848  had  closed 
one  era  and  opened  another;  the  constitution  meant  repre- 
sentation, representation  meant  popular  government,  and 
popular  government  meant  adjustment  to  the  ideas  and 
practices  of  the  progressive  states  of  the  west — the  British 
Empire,  the  United  States,  and  France.  So  the  king 
summoned  a  representative  parliament,  called  to  his  assist- 
ance a  group  of  capable  ministers,  and  set  to  work  to 
remodel  th'-  institutions  of  Sardinia.  It  was  not  quite  the 
Augean  stable  that  Naples  was,  but  there  was  much  to  be 
done,  and  Piedmont  was  far  from  unanimous  in  its  atti- 
tude to  the  future. 

Indeed,  a  task  had  soon  to  be  entered  upo..  that  awak- 
ened a  powerful  and  bitter  enemy.  Six  hundred  years 
before,  the  practice  had  been  universal  in  Europe  to  try 
the  persons  and  suits  of  churchmen  before  the  ecclesiastical 
courts.  And  not  only  churchmen,  but  all  who  were  in 
any  way  dependent  on  the  Church,  all  Crusaders,  all  wid- 
ows and  orphans,  could  take  their  causes  to  ihe  bishop 
rather  than  to  the  civil  judge.  Before  the  ecclesiastical 
court  were  brought  all  cases  affecting  wills  and  testa- 
ments or  alms  to  the  Church.  Certain  churches  possessed 
the  privilege  of  sanctuary,  and  might  be  a  refuge  to  those 
pursued  by  the  officers  of  the  law.  Education  was  con- 
trolled by  the  Church,  in  fact  was  almost  a  monopoly 
of  the  Church,  so  that  few  but  clerks  or  monks  could 
read  at  all.  And  the  power  thus  confided  in  the  Church 
in  the  Middle  Ages  was  undoubtedly  for  the  good  of 
Europe.     But  as  the  age  of  confusion  passed  away,  as 


202 


Italian  Cities 


peace  came  in  greater  measure  to  the  distracted  states  of 
the  West,  as  higher  ideals  became  more  possible  and  more 
universal,  and  as  governments  became  less  and  less  mere 
powerful  central  forces  quelling  with  a  strong  hand  all 
powers  opposed  to  them,  the  idea  of  administrative  unity 
became  both  clearer  and  more  possible  of  realization,  and 
in  England  the  church  courts  had  lost  most  of  their  use- 
fulness and  power  before  the  Middle  Ages  can  be  said  to 
have  closed.  The  famous  conflict  between  Henry  II.  and 
Thomas  k  Becket  turned  on  this  very  issue.  And  this 
quarrel  of  twelfth-century  England  had  to  be  fought  out  in 
nineteenth-century  Italy,  with  Victor  Emmanuel  bravely  but 
all  unwillingly  taking  the  part  of  the  great  Angevin.  But 
the  fierceness  of  Henry  and  the  bitterness  which  led  finally 
to  the  archbishop's  murder  were  far  from  the  heart  of 
the  Italian;  his  opposition  to  the  Church  was  begun  and 
maintained  in  sorrow  and  anxious  desire  for  reconciliation; 
his  persistence  in  reform,  in  the  abolition  of  the  church 
courts,  in  the  nationalization  of  education,  in  the  removal 
of  laws  against  heretics,  was  due  only  to  a  severe  sense  of 
public  duty;  and  his  victory  was  unaccompanied  with 
triumph  or  any  feeling  but  one  of  satisfaction  at  duty 
done,  and  regret  for  his  enforced  alienation  from  the 
Church  that  he  loved.  Pius  IX.  remained  proof  against 
the  king's  earnest  protests  of  fidelity,  and  the  breach  with 
the  Church  became  in  time  even  wider. 

In  1850  there  entered  the  cabinet  the  man  who  was  to 
do  perhaps  more  than  any  other  one  individual  towards 
making  Italy  united  and  free — Count  Camillo  Cavour.* 
He  was  a   younger  son  of  a  noble  Piedmontese  house. 

'See  Countess  Cesaresco's  "Cavour  '  in  Itie  Foreign  Slatesmeo  series. 
This, with  the  bibliography  in  Bolton  King's  "Italian  Unity,"  will  suUiciently 
direct  the  student  to  further  material. 


,.  J: 


From  Turin  to  Pome 


203 


I 


He  had  received  a  good  education,  and  had  traveled 
widely  in  Europe,  but  his  family  was  not  wealthy  and  his 
own  portion  was  a  meager  one.  So  it  was  suggested 
that  he  should  benefit  the  family  and  increase  his  own 
income  by  becoming  manager  of  the  ancestral  estates.  Into 
the  business  and  agricultural  sides  of  his  new  occupation 
he  threw  himself  with  energy  and  success;  his  fields  and 
villages  became  models  of  wise  management  and  pro- 
gressive methods;  and  long  before  he  became  a  politician 
he  was  one  of  the  wisest,  most  progressive,  and  most  valu- 
able citizens  of  Piedmont.  As  his  estates  came  to  need 
less  of  his  time  he  turned  the  spare  energy  thus  set  free 
into  journalism,  vigorously  advocating  the  cause  of  all- 
round  reform.  He  became  in  the  new  parliament  one  of 
the  ablest  and  soundest  speakers.  There  was  probably 
not  a  man  in  Piedmont  so  well  informed,  by  actual  con- 
tact, as  to  the  conditions  of  industry,  commerce,  agricul- 
ture, and  public  feeling.  When  the  ministry  of  agricul- 
ture became  vacant  in  1850,  it  was  natural  enough  that  the 
portfolio  should  be  given  to  Cavour,  and  in  1852  he  be- 
came prime  minister.  From  that  time  his  name  is  insepar- 
ably assjciated  with  every  step  that  was  taken  towards  the 
aggrandizement  of  Piedmont  and  the  liberation  of  Italy. 
In  these  early  fifties  the  first  duty  of  the  Piedmontese 
government  was  still  to  place  the  country  on  a  firm  founda- 
tion industrially  and  commercially,  and  to  adjust  its  insti- 
tutions to  its  new  status  as  a  liberal,  seh-goveming  state. 
Before  it  could  lead  Italy  again  in  a  national  war  it  must 
recover  its  spent  strength  and  stand  on  a  firm  financial 
basis.  Before  it  could  form  a  healthy  nucleus  for  a  free 
Italy  it  must  try  to  educate  its  citizens  and  'earn  by  prac- 
tice what  intelligent  liberty  meant.     So  to  these  arduous 


I 


204 


Italian  Citie 


h' 


tasks  Cavour  chiefly  bent  himself.  But  he  never  lost 
sight  of  the  cause  in  which  Charles  Albert  had  spent  the 
last  year  of  his  reign,  and  for  whi  '^  ''^»ct'  r  Emmanuel  as 
Duke  of  Savoy  had  fought  so  g.  il  i.;tiy  ii\  J  vainly.  He 
had  faith  in  Italy  as  deep  as  Mazxui.  •,  ar  I  he  had  also 
what  Mazzini  lacked,  a  clear  p  ■  ccpiic:!  )f  the  means 
which  alone  could  make  the  liberal  j  \  "f  {*aly  oossible. 

In  1854  Sardinia  joined  Fran<  e  4:-'!  C-  '  u  b.itair  in  the 
Crimean  War.  Cavour  and  the  kinj  v/,,,^  bitterly  criti- 
cized for  wasting  the  country's  sicnder  r -o  i-ces  in  a 
frivolous  alliance,  but  the  wise  men  who  wtse  guuling 
Piedmont  to  her  great  destiny  knew  their  business.  The 
troops  under  La  Marmora  fought  bravely  and  wc''  The\ 
earned  the  respect  and  good  will  of  their  French  and  Eng- 
lish comrades.  When  the  Congress  of  the  Powers  met  at 
Paris  to  arrange  the  terms  of  the  peace  in  1856,  Cavour 
himself  represented  Sardinia,  and  sat  at  the  same  board 
as  his  national  arch-eneiny,  the  representative  of  Au-itria. 
Moreover,  before  the  plenipotentiaries  separated,  Cavi-ur, 
who  had  won  the  favor  of  the  representatives  of  France 
and  England,  begged  permission  to  lay  the  state  ot  Italy 
before  the  Congress.  In  i  calm  and  cogent  st  tement 
he  brought  for-van'.  in  indictment  against  Austria,  v  iich 
might  e.xcite  the  violent  wrath  of  the  Austrian  plenipoten- 
tiary indeed,  but  which  rang  from  end  to  end  of  western 
Europe,  and  secured  at  once  for  the  Italian  cause  the  back- 
ing of  uiat  subtle  and  powerful  spiritual  force — the  public 
opinion  of  the  civilized  world.  P.cdmont  had  then  re- 
established herself;  she  had  secured  the  respect  and 
friendiy  regard  of  Europe;  she  had  won  for  herself  sym- 
pathy, and  had  aroused  for  her  oppressor  a  distinct  att^ 
tude  of  unfriendly  criticism.     So  much  was  good. 


F^rom  Fu     i  to  R(»me 


Z05 


And  )w  all  wa'  rcnrv  for  th(  noxt  step.  Civou'- 
believed  firmly,  to  the  horror  and  disc'  jnu.emeut  of 
Ma/.zini,  that  Italy  would  need  the  help  ot  a  great  power 
against  Austria.  England  was  im[K)ssiblc;  ^ni^sia  was 
more  imp  issible;  France  might  have  iucn  dee  mei  equally 
so  had  F  cuuenot  been  ruled  bv  the  mi-It..lia'  '^ap 
leon  III.  The  personality  of  his  st  e  hun  n 
was  Cavour's  hope  He  set  himself  to  trie  tast 
ing  all  the  emperoi  -  old  regard  )r  Ital^  ,  md 
ing  in  him  all  the  Ad  traditi*  al  Fren  h 
Austria.  He  pointed  to  tht  ii.^.  lious  advas, 
trian  power  in  Italy,  t  ■  tht  danffer  if  an  striai 
on  Piedmont — an  attai     whu  u  Pi  dmon;  1  n 

to  resist  alone,  but  w    use  succws     wou         ave 
supreme  i\-<m  the  \lps     ■  Sici, 

N  poleon  vvas  'iused.  C^voii  re 
that  It  Austria  were  to  attack  .'kdmont, 
the  res(  ue.     And  there  ren    ined  the 


i    !Z2I  • 
vtl   >U!i- 

V 


lope 
iustria 


the  promise 
•■anre  would  go  to 
c  of  so  ordering 
?  fulfilled.  It  is 
lie  nestly  sets 
whos  ortification 
vent  of  3  war  with 
;  '  pubi-ed  on  w  r  preparations  of  all 
jHu  said  ex  lerati  ,  things,  while  main- 
tain g  the  :  sc,  .  alou  xternal  politeness;  in  short, 
sh-  went  so  ci  se  to  at  iial  insult  and  ieclaration  of  hostile 
inunt  that  at  iost  A  stria's  ang  and  nervousness  were  too 
much  for  her.  in  ipril,  18,9  in  le  ultimatum  which 
ende  '  the  long  str  in  for  Cavou  enabled  him  to  claim 
Napo  :)n's  promise.  The  miruck  was  realized.  Once 
more  rance  '  1  ?ed  the  Alps.  Once  more  a  Bonaparte 
crossed  swords      th  Austria  in  Lombardy.     On  the  fields 


things  that  the  require-?  coi       ion  sh 
seldom  difficult  to  !>ro  oke  an  at 
about  it.     ^'  cdmont  fortified  po 
could  have     >  meaiung  except  in  tn 

Aiib      i;   shL 
kind      she  '' 


h  ii 


I! 
> ;  t  5' 


206 


Italian  Cities 


of  Magenta  and  Solferino  were  won  the  two  greatest  vic- 
tories that  the  French  arms  have  achieved  since  the  great 
NafKjleon,  and  Lombardy  was  freed  at  last.  The  Italian 
patriots  hoped  for  Venice,  too.  The  emperor  had  prom- 
ised to  free  Italy  from  the  Alps  to  the  Adriatic.  But 
even  though  his  heart  now  failed  him,  though  his  treaty 
with  Austria  at  Villafranca  left  Venice  still  in  the  hands 
of  her  oppressors,'  though  the  disappointed  rage  of  the 
Italians  pursued  him  with  execrations  instead  of  bless- 
ings, yet  Cavour  and  the  king  well  knew  how  much  they 
owed  to  the  emperor.  Before  the  end  of  1859  not  only 
Lombardy,  but  Lucca,  Modena,  Parma,  and  Tuscany 
owned  the  rule  of  Victor  Emmanuel.  No  one  could  now 
declare  that  a  united  Italy  was  impossible. 

To  one  brave  soldier  the  peace  of  Villafranca  came  as 
a  peculiarly  heavy  disappointment.  Giuseppe  Garibaldi, 
exiled  in  1834,  had  drifted  off  to  South  America,  had 
joined  himself  there  to  all  causes  that  reminded  him  of  the 
cause  he  loved  at  home,  had  fought  for  liberty — or  what 
seemed  to  him  liberty — with  a  lion-like  courage,  an  im- 
petuous abandon,  a  single-minded  devotion  to  high  ideals, 
a  warmth  of  heart  and  an  incapacity  for  corruption  that 
had  won  for  him  the  enthusiastic  love  of  a  little  band  of 
followers  and  great  fame  as  an  irregular  fighter.  The 
revolution  year,  1848,  had  brought  him  home,  only  to  be 
in  time  for  the  disasters  of  the  fall  and  winter,  and  for  the 
heroic  defense  of  Rome  in  the  summer  of  1849.  The 
outbreak  of  the  great  war  of  1859  found  him  settled  on 
the  little  island  of  Caprera,  near  the  coast  of  Sardinia, 


•  Oppressors  only  in  a  sentimental,  national    sense,  be   it  understood. 
Apart  from  forbidding  political  action  or  agitation,  Austria  ruled  her  Italian 

Srovinces  mildly  and  fairly  well.    Naples  suffered  from  tyranny  far  more  ttian 
lilan. 


"•fcwraWBKPSB^tr 


f 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


207 


where  he  was  patiently  awaiting  an  opportunity  to  strike 
another  blow  for  Italia  una  e  libera,  and  in  that  war  he  did 
effective  service  in  command  of  a  body  of  irregular  troops 
styled  "Hunters  of  the  A'ps."  To  his  ardent  nature  the 
full  dawning  of  Italian  freedom  was  at  hand.  And  the 
measure  of  his  confident  expectation  was  the  measure  of 
his  bitter  disappointment.  Only  the  personal  command 
of  his  beloved  king  made  him  lay  down  his  arms,  and  he 
retired  dejected  to  Caprera,  only  to  fume  and  storm  over 
the  crimes  and  blunders — as  they  seemed — of  others.* 

But  pregnant  rumors  reached  him  as  that  winter  neared 
its  close — rumors  of  a  stirring  of  the  waters  in  Sicily. 
Only  a  leader  was  needed  there,  ^'  was  said,  to  bring 
about  a  revolution.  Garibaldi  was  tempted — hesitated — 
then  decided  on  the  great  venture.  He  had  able  lieuten- 
ants. Arms  were  secured  and  arrangements  perfected 
with  the  utmost  secrecy.  And  then,  on  the  evening  of 
May  5,  i860,  two  small  steamers  slipped  out  of  the 
harbor  of  Genoa  with  a  thousand  red-shirted  men  on 
board,  bound  no  one  knew  whither.  Before  two  weeks 
had  passed  Europe  was  being  electrified  with  astonishing 
news.  The  famous  guerrilla  chief  had  landed  in  Sicily, 
had  defeated  a  detachment  of  Neapolitan  troops,  and  was 
marching  on  Palermo.  Like  a  thunderbolt  the  red-shirted 
heroes  fell  on  the  Sicilian  capital,  captured  it,  held  it 
against  a  terrific  bombardment,  and  finally  forced  the 
royal  general  to  a  treaty,  leaving  Garibaldi  the  control  of 
the  island.  He  was  proclaimed  dictator  of  Sicily.  But 
this  was  not  enough.  He  crossed  to  the  mainland, 
marched  north,  entered  Naples,  and  there,  too,  was  pro- 


most 


'See  Garibaldis  " Autobioerpphy."    There  is.  a  capital  account  of  thii 
It  picturesque  " maker  ol  Italy  "^in  Thayer's  "Throne  Makers." 


'iM 


208 


Italian  Cities 


y: 


claimed  dictator.  Whereupon  Victor  Emmanuel  had  to 
take  a  hand,  and  the  King  of  North  Italy  marched  south 
to  receive  from  his  loyal  friend  and  subject  ihe  gift  of  a 
kingdom.  The  two  joined  forces  to  capture  Gaeta,  the 
last  stronghold  of  the  defeated  king  of  the  Two  Sicilies. 
So  Victor  Emmanuel  was  king  now  of  South  and  North. 
There  remained  only  Rome  and  Venice. 

The  story  is  nearly  told.  Cavour  died  in  the  summer 
of  1 86 1,  all  too  soon  for  Italy.  But  his  successors  endeav- 
ored to  hold  to  his  ideals,  and  to  use  his  methods.  In 
1866  Prussia  fought  her  duel  with  Austria  for  supremacy 
in  Germany.  Austria's  danger  was  Italy's  opportunity, 
and  Victor  Emmanuel  became  the  willing  and  use  ml  ally  of 
King  William.  The  issue  was  decided  on  the  field  of 
Koniggratz  (Sadowa)  and  Italy's  reward  was  Venice. 
Rome  was  still  guarded  by  a  French  garrison.  Napo- 
leon III.  still  declared  himself  the  firm  protector  of  the 
pope.  But  in  1 870  came  the  Franco- Prussian  War. 
The  terrible  series  of  defeats  during  the  summer  of  that 
year  culminated  in  Sedan.  With  the  capture  of  the 
emperor  by  the  Prussians  ended  the  Second  Empire,  and 
with  Napoleon's  fall  ended  the  French  guarantee  of  the 
temporal  power  of  tie  pope.  The  departure  of  the 
French  garrison  left  the  Vatican  powerless.  Th-  little 
army  of  Pius  IX.  was  soon  overcome,  and  Rome  itself 
was  added  to  the  kingdom  of  Italy,  now  united  under  one 
sceptre  for  the  first  time  since  Theodoric  the  Ostrogoth 
had  reigned  in  the  Eternal  City  thirteen  centuries  ago  and 
more. 

Italy  was  united  at  last,  and  free.  What  the  united 
Italian  race  may  now  look  forward  to,  no  man  knows. 
That  the  destiny  of  that  wonderful  people  will  be  a  worthy 


II 


mim 


From  Turin  to  Rome 


209 


one,  few  can  doubt.  For  eight  centuries  the  Italians  were 
the  first  people  of  the  civilized  world,  conquering  and 
ruling  all  Europe  south  of  the  Danube  and  west  of  the 
Rhine,  Asia  to  the  Euphrates  and  Africa  north  of  the 
Great  Desert.  For  eight  more  centuries  the  Roman 
world  was  busily  conquering  its  conquerors  and  rising  in 
new  forms  of  life  from  the  ashes  of  the  Empire.  It  was 
the  age  of  Gregory  the  Great,  of  Hildebrand,  of  Venice, 
Genoa,  and  Pisa.  Then  came  the  century  of  Francis  and 
Dante,  then  the  tide  of  the  Renaissance,  reaching  its  full 
flood  in  the  age  of  Lorenzo,  Raphael,  and  Titian,  then  at 
the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  first  perceptible  lapse 
in  the  energy  and  fruitfulness  of  the  Italian  race  during 
two  thousand  years.  Was  it  exhausted  then?  Not  so. 
At  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  man  who  caught 
the  force  of  the  French  Revolution,  harnessed  it,  ard  used 
it  to  conquer  Europe,  \vas  a  pure-blood  Italian,  as  true 
a  type  of  the  vigor  of  the  race  as  Sulla  or  Columbus. 
A  ri  then  came  Italy's  nineteenth-century  prophet,  Maz- 
zini,  her  knight-errant.  Garibaldi,  her  statesman,  Cavour, 
her  sturdy  king,  Victor  Emmanuel,  and  the  miracle  of  the 
liberation  of  Italy!  Let  it  not  be  said  that  so  great  a  race 
can  decay  now  at  the  moment  when  it  is  at  last  free  and 
united.  Rather  may  the  New  Italy  combine  the  genius 
and  fulfil  the  destiny  of  all  her  immortal  cities,  and  be  still 
Italy  the  undying. 


INDEX 


Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  Florence,  iig. 
Addison's  Description  of  Siena  Cath- 
edral, 80,  81. 
Angelico,  Fra,  106, 107, 110. 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  125, 164. 
Asceticism,  108,  no. 
Assisi,  44-S6. 

"Athens,  School  of, "  Fresco,  147-149. 
Attila  the  Hun,  134. 
Austrian   Domination  in  Italy,  igo- 

193,  199,  204. 

Baiz,  4. 

Barbarossa,  Frederick,  176-181. 

Bellini,  Giovanni,  160-163, 16$. 

Benozzo  Gozzoli,  113. 

Blacks,  Faction  of,  in  Florence,  96. 

Boccaccio,  107-111. 

Botticelli,  122-124, 127, 128 

Burne-Jones,  Sir   E.,   on  Carpaccio 

and  Bellini,  165. 
Byzantine  Art,  66, 102-103. 

Cxsar,  30,  31. 

Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  67,  68,  72,  74. 

Canova,  141. 

Carbonari,  194, 19$, 

Carpaccio,  160-162, 16$, 

Carthage,  24, 

Catherine  of  Siena,  88-90. 

Cavour,  189,  202-208. 

Charles  Albert,  197-200. 

Chivalry,  Meaning  of,  43. 

Christianity  in  the  Empire,  33-37. 

Chrysoloras,  Manuel,  Teaches  Greek 

at  Florence,  133. 
Church  Medieval    0-44;  Conflict  of, 

with  Victor  Emmunuel,  201,  202. 
Cimabue,  104. 


Como  Lake,  171. 

Cosimo  de'  Medici,  113-116. 

Crimean  War,  204. 

Crusades,  Genoa  in  the,  60;  Venice 

in  the,  1$$. 
Custozza,  199. 

Dante,  92-102. 

"David"  of  Michelangelo,  144. 
Decameron  of  Boccaccio,  108. 
Divine  Comedy  of  Dante,  97-102. 
Doges,  Palace  of  the,  153, 159, 168. 
Ouccio  di  Buoninsegna,  86,  87, 104. 
Duomo  of  Siena,  io,  85. 

Forum  Romanum,  19,  20. 

Fonte  Gaja  of  Siena,  78,  79. 

Francis  of  Assisi,  44-S6. 

French  Revolution,  Effect  of,  on 
Italy,  190. 

Frederick  Barbarossa,  176-181. 

Florence,  Chapters  VI.  and  V11.,/<m- 
Sim;  Compared  to  Athens  and  Con- 
trasted with  Venice,  156. 

Garibaldi,  206-208. 

Genoa,  57-63. 

Ghibellines,  95-97. 

Ghirlandajo,  125. 

Giorgione,  160. 

Giotto,  105, 106, 141. 

Giovanni  Pisano,  71,  72. 

Giudecca  at  Venice,  153, 168, 169. 

Gothic  Influence  on  Italian  Art,  70, 71. 

Gracchus,  Tiberius,  26,  37,  29;  Caius, 
29. 

Guelfs,  95-97, 114. 
Hannibal,  25,  26. 


211 


I 


212  Index 


■n 


Italian  Race,  Unity  of,  i7i-i74- 
Italy,  Disunion  of,  i88-i8g. 

Jerome,  36,  39,  40. 
Julius  II.,  Pope,  144-146. 

Lippi,  Filippo,  119-122. 
Leo  X.,  Pope,  146. 149, 150. 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  183-184. 
Lombard  League,  180-181. 
Lombardy  Freed  by  Napoleon  III, 

206. 
Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  113,  116,  134,  13;, 

140. 

Magenta,  206. 

Marius,  30. 

Mangia  Tower,  Siena,  76. 

Masaccio,  117-119. 

Mazzini,  189,  193-200. 

Medici,  Palace  of,  113. 

Medici,  Cosimo  de",  113-116. 

Medici,  Giovanni  de',    See  Leo  X. 

Medici,  Lorenzo  de'.  113, 116, 134, 13s, 

140. 
Medici,  Piero  de',  115,  116. 
Meloria,  62. 

Melozzoda  Forii,  141,  147. 
Metternich,  192. 
Mictielangelo,  140-146,  151,  152. 
Milan,  Cathedral  of,  174-176. 
Middle  Ages,  Disorder  of,  38-40. 
Misenum,  :,  6,  7. 
Mosaic  in  Venice,  159. 
"Moses"  of  Michelangelo,  145, 152. 

Naples,  I,  2,  3. 

Napoleon  Delivers  Venice  to  Austria, 

iS8;  General  of  French  Revolution 

in  Italy,  190. 
Napoleon  III.,  199,  205,  206. 
Niccola  Pisano,  67-71. 
Novara,  199,  200. 

Orcagna,  106,  107. 

Palazzo  della  Signoria  of  Siena,  76-78. 


Paris,  Congress  of,  in  i8s6,  204- 

Patricians  and  Plebs,  21-23. 

Perugino,  147. 

Petrarch,  107,  130-1;  . 

Pico  della  Mirandola,  127,  133. 

"Pieta"  of  Michelangelo,  139-141,144. 

Pinturicchio,  82-85,  M7- 

Pisa,  63-74- 

Pistoia,  96. 

Pius  IX.,  Pope,  197,  202,  208. 

Platonic  Academy,  133. 

Pliny,  6,  7. 

Poliziano,  133. 

Pompey,  30,  31. 

Pompeii,  Destruction  of,  6,  7. 

"Primavera"  of  Botticelli,  123,  124, 

127,  128. 
Pozziioli,  5. 
Posilipo,  2,  3. 

Puritanism  of  Florence,  125-127. 
Pyrrhus,  23,  25. 

Qi'ercia,  Jacopo  della,  7**.  79- 

Raphael,  146-149. 
Revival  of  Learning,  I2<^133' 
Riccardi  Palace,  113. 
Rivo  Alto  at  Venice,  155. 
Rome,  Sack  of,  in  1527,  i5o,i5i;'56,i73; 
Chapters  I., VIII., and  XI., passim. 
Roncaglia,  Diet  of,  178,  I79- 
Rucetlai  Madonna,  104. 


San  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni,  162. 
San  Marco  (St.  Mark's;,  153,  159.  166- 

168. 
Santa  Maria  delta  Carmine,  116-119. 
Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie,  183. 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  104. 
Santa  Maria  della  Salute,  153  168. 
San  Piecro  (St.  Peter's),  136,  139-142. 
San  Zaccaria,  162. 
Savonarola,  128, 129,  140. 
Savoy,  House  of,  187,  188. 
"  School  of  Athens"  Fresco,  I47-I4<J- 
Senate,  Roman,  27-31. 


■ir 


Index                               213 

Simeon  Stylites,  108-ioq. 

Ursula,  Story  of,  161,  162. 

Sicily,  Garibaldi  in.  207. 

Sistine  Chapel,  142-146,  i;i. 

Vetlius,  House  of,  in  Pompeii,  14,  is. 

Sodoma,  88-84. 

Venice,  Rise  of,  1S4-1S8;  Compared  to 

Solierino,  106. 

Rome,  iS6;  United  to  Italy,  208. 

.144. 

Solfatara.  $. 

Venetian   Painters,  Contrasted  with 

Sulla,  30. 

Florentines,  163-165. 

Siorza,  182,  183,  186. 

Veronese,  Paola,  164,  16$. 
Victor  Emmanuel,  i8g,  200-208. 

Tintoretto,  160,  165. 
Titian,  160-161,  163-16$. 

Villafranca,  Peace  of,  306. 
Visconti  of  Milan,  182. 

"Triumph  of  Death"  Fresco.  72-74- 

Two  Sicilies,  the  Kingdom  oi,  igo. 

Whites,  Faction  of,  in  Florence,  g6. 

207-208. 

124, 

Turin,  187. 

"  Young  Italy,"  Society  of,  19J. 

6.173; 

tsim. 

^i66- 

ng. 

R. 

9-142. 

7-149. 


^MMHii 


